Second Chance
by Virtuella
Summary: Guy of Gisburne's cruelty and rages are palpably the actions of a broken and deeply unhappy man. Imagine circumstances under which he could delve into the abyss of his own heart and seek healing. Is Guy saveable? Somebody is trying to find out.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

When Guy came to, he kept his eyes closed at first and reviewed reality. The memory of what had happened before he had fainted was vivid, if confusing. After another dreadful day, he had stood in his chamber preparing for bed and as he blew out the candle, an uncanny convulsion had seized him. He had felt as if his body and mind and all his senses were stretched in every direction, stretched to breaking point and then suddenly snapped back, like a bowstring released. He had wondered, briefly, whether it was at all connected with the Fenris cult. The shock of the sudden sensation had knocked the breath out of him and left him senseless. Now he tried to reassure himself that he was back to normal. He could feel all his limbs, and his breath was steady. He was lying down, on his own bed in Nottingham Castle, or so he liked to think, though it felt not quite as it should. The room was silent apart from a distant hum. He opened his eyes. Then he screamed.

oOoOo

In the darkened room behind the one-way mirror, Professor Michael Watford and his assistant watched the man leap up from the pallet bed and cast about with frantic eyes. He turned and turned, touching the walls, the window, the furniture, even the floor. He came up to the glass and peered at it with a perplexed expression. He stormed into the bathroom and out again, and rushed towards the outer door. Then he began to rattle the door handle and shortly afterwards to throw himself against the door, again and again.

"He needs a dampener," said the professor. "2 ml?"

"One point five?" suggested the assistant.

"Are you sure?"

"I'd prefer him alert."

"Suit yourself. I'll stand by to bail you out."

"I appreciate that."

The professor adjusted a dial and pressed a button, which opened a valve in the ceiling of the room behind the screen. Within a minute or so, the man's movements slowed down. Eventually, he stepped away from the door and sank into one of the two armchairs that stood at right angles to each other. His heartbeat, previously visible at his neck, calmed and his breathing evened out.

"He's all yours," said the professor. "Your big moment has come. Good luck."

"Thank you," replied the assistant and went through the door.

oOoOo

Guy, too dazed to panic anymore, watched as the door opened and someone came in. He assumed it was a woman, based on face and figure, though her attire was not the least feminine. She wore bluish breeches and a short, tight tunic which was of a fine black material and unadorned save for a slender silver necklace. Her honey-blonde hair barely reached her shoulders. She held out her hand.

"Good afternoon, Mr Gisburne," she said and smiled.

"My Lord of Gisburne to you!" he barked, but supressed the impulse to slap her across the face, since her voice had convinced him that she was indeed a woman and since her appearance, however outlandish, didn't mark her as a serf. Besides, he felt that all the strength had been sapped from his body.

The woman withdrew her hand but maintained her smile.

"Mr Gisburne," she repeated. "I am Dr Anna Sinclair. You are experiencing the effect of disorientation and physical shock, which is why we have administered a mild sedative."

Guy made no reply, primarily because he didn't understand what she was talking about.

"Welcome to the 21st century," she continued as she sat down in the second armchair. "You are at Chrysalis Beta, a private research facility that specialises in metascientific technologies. We have recently developed a method for extracting fictional characters from their home worlds without damaging the fabric of reality. It is an amazing break-through. You are our first subject. We chose you because we consider you evil yet redeemable."

If her first speech had been baffling, the second was even worse. He frowned and shook his head.

"Am I your prisoner?"

She sighed. "I had hoped this issue wouldn't come up straight away. For the time being, you have to stay here in the facility, yes. For safety reasons. Later, we will see."

"What do you want with me?"

"I'm afraid I expressed myself poorly earlier. We have pulled you out of your world because you are a very wicked man and we want to change that. We believe you could become good and that you would be happier that way."

"Really?" A cynical smile curled his lip. "You are a fool then. It is way too late for that. Nothing can save me. I am beyond help."

"Not at all. We reckon you are very saveable. You see, we wouldn't have extracted the Baron de Belleme or the king or even the sheriff. They are too contented. You, though – in you, we can see the suffering."

"You're absurd, woman!"

"You can call me Anna, if you like. And I'm not absurd. Unhappiness is simply radiating off you, anyone can see that. You are a walking, talking bundle of hurt."

"Nonsense! I am a knight and a soldier and I don't regret anything. Nothing! I'd do it all again! I'm a proud man, of noble birth, feared by the peasants, a trained swordsman, deputy to the sheriff of Nottingham."

He stopped for breath. The woman who called herself Dr Anna Sinclair regarded him with calm scrutiny. "And yet, Mr Gisburne," she replied, "you told me not two minutes ago that nothing can save you, that it's too late for you. That does not sound to me as if you are entirely satisfied with yourself."

Again he felt like slapping her, again he realised he didn't have the energy. Instead, he stared at her with contempt.

"Ah," she said, "your signature pout. It's very endearing, Mr Gisburne, but it's hardly an argument, is it?"

This was like something the sheriff might have said. He clenched his jaw. "You are trying to turn me into a better man by patronising me?"

"I am sorry, Mr Gisburne." She smiled. What was it with all this smiling? "What I said was uncalled for. Of course you are feeling upset and defiant. Hardly surprising under the circumstances."

Not like the sheriff, then.

"Let us try to be honest, though. Your alleged achievements give you little pleasure, isn't that so? Your service to Robert de Rainault isn't based on loyalty or respect, but on economic dependence. All your superiors abuse and humiliate you, or worse. The men under your command loathe and despise you. Your noble birth, well, we'll get to that later. As for being a knight, you must be painfully aware that you have failed to live up to the chivalric code in almost every respect. You have oppressed the weak and the helpless instead of defending them, you have assaulted women instead of showing them respect, you have been the tool of injustice when you ought to have been the champion of justice. If anything, you are an anti-knight. You have lied and cheated and broken every vow; you are a bully, a thief, a cold-blooded murderer –"

At this, Gisburne mustered the strength to jump up from the armchair. "How do you know such things about me?" he demanded.

"I know everything about you," she replied. "Did you not listen? You are a fictional character. In preparation for your extraction from your world, I have conducted a very thorough study of the source material. I know you hate what you are. I know your hatred of yourself leads you to cruel and despicable actions, and then you hate yourself even more. It is a vicious circle and you have no idea how to escape from it. But we do. We can help you, if you let us."

"How?" he sneered.

"With patience, goodwill and hard work. And a working knowledge of psychology." She rose from her seat and looked at him with earnest solicitude. "I'll leave you to yourself now. Think about what I have said; ask yourself if it is the truth. Someone will bring you something to eat and more comfortable clothes. Then you'd best go to sleep. I'll come again tomorrow to hear whether you are ready to embark on a process of healing."

"And what if I refuse?"

"Then we'll send you right back to where you came from. That's all for now. Good night."

She was through the door before he thought of forcing his way out beside her. He sank back on the chair.

oOoOo

"So, how did I do?"

Professor Watford rubbed his ear. "You were more confrontational than I expected. More confrontational than necessary, I would say. You got his back up against you."

"He needed to hear some home truths. It's not as if I made up any of it. He really is a beast. Makes my skin crawl to think of how he killed the miller. So much blood on his hands…"

"Still, it's not your role to crush him. Certain things are expected of you. Unconditional positive regard and all that, I'm sure you can remember your Carl Rogers. If you can't muster that, then I'm afraid you're not suitable for this project."

"Michael!"

"You know the score, Anna. You want to be a counsellor, you can't be judgemental like that."

"I was just trying to get him to be honest with himself."

"You can't force him. I suggest you take your own advice and ask yourself honestly whether you're the right person for this task. If by tomorrow you can't get yourself to show some compassion for the man, I'll be forced to reconsider. Leanne is inexperienced, but I think she has the gentler touch that is needed here."

Anna wrung her hands. "I'll try to do better. Please, Michael, don't pull the plug on me. It was only my first attempt."

The professor took a heavy breath. He would have looked youthful, with his intense dark eyes and delicate features, had it not been for his hair, which had turned grey when he was in his early thirties. Anna knew that many of the women at Chrysalis Beta (and one or two of the men) considered Michael a dish and envied her for working so closely with him. She also suspected that Michael had chosen her as his assistant for reasons not exclusively professional, but she herself felt ambivalent on the subject.

"Michael?"

"Right, right. I'll see how you do tomorrow."

"Thank you."

"And something else: You shouldn't have lied to him."

"What do you mean?"

"You know we can't send him back."

oOoOo

The woman who brought him food was elderly and, just like Dr Anna Sinclair, dressed in a short tunic (though hers was green) and blueish breeches.

"Here you go, son, enjoy," she said as she set down a tray. "Steak and kidney pie, that'll put hair on your chest." Guy regarded her with perfect bafflement; it seemed a ludicrous thing for a serving wench to say. The woman, however, was oblivious to his bewilderment. She went into the strangely gleaming, windowless room he had seen earlier and bustled about there. "I've put out some towels and pyjamas for you," she called through the open door. "Play about with the taps and you'll find out how they work, but be careful of the hot water. If you need a wee, lift the lid on the seat and press the button afterwards."

She emerged from the strange room, tucking a grey lock behind her ear. "Eat up now, son. You must be hungry. I know you've had a rough day. Sleep well, don't let the big, bad bed bugs bite."

This time Guy had intended to storm out through the door as soon as it opened for her. However, when the moment came, he found he couldn't do it. Whether that was due to what Anna Sinclair had called "a mild sedative" or to her accusations of him assaulting women, he wasn't too sure, but the fact was that he sat and didn't move. He stared at the tray, which was carved out of some unfamiliar white material, and thought that the steaming food smelled rather good. Stewed meat in a thick sauce was half covered by a slab of golden pastry, with pieces of boiled carrots on the side. There were also roundish chunks of a pale yellow vegetable that he didn't know. He picked up one and sniffed it. Then he licked its velvety surface. It tasted bland but comforting. Certainly better than the rotting cabbage that the inmates of Nottingham Castle's dungeons could expect. If he was indeed a prisoner, he had drawn a better lot than most. He ate the whole meal, using a curiously lightweight spoon to scrape up the sauce, then wiped his fingers on what he assumed was a napkin, though it was oddly flimsy and tore apart in his hands. Water was provided in the strangest cup, fashioned out of a rose-coloured material that looked vaguely like frosted glass but was light and thin as fine leather. When he snipped his fingernail against it, it made only a hollow thud.

He set the cup back on the empty tray and decided to take a closer look at the other room. As soon as he entered, he jumped back in fright – radiant light suddenly flicked on, as if the Day of Judgement had come. When all remained still otherwise, he dared to look and saw that the light emanated from a glowing circle in the ceiling. He recalled that the light had also come on when the serving wench had gone into the room. The room itself was most peculiar. Walls and floor were covered with white, glazed pottery. On a ledge near the door lay the towels the serving wench had mentioned, and a garment made from a soft, dark blue fabric. The room contained three main features: a semi-circular white pottery bowl that clung to the wall and spouted curious metal adornments, a white pottery seat and, behind a frosted glass screen, an even more curious arrangement of metal objects suspended over a massive oval bowl on the floor. The towels suggested that the room was meant for washing and the wall-mounted bowl could certainly be used for that purpose, but who would bring him water? Besides, he didn't need to wash, he had made his ablutions just before… _it_ …had happened. How long ago was that now? Just a few hours?

He returned to the first room, the one with the bed and the armchairs. Here a large window showed him the surroundings, but not much could be learned from the view: a swathe of grass and beyond that, a thicket of trees in autumn foliage. The sky had taken on the dullness of dusk.

With both fists, he hammered against the window pane. The glass did not break. "Let me out!" he roared. "Where am I? What is happening? LET…ME…OUT!"

A faint hiss seemed to come from the ceiling. Moments later, Sir Guy of Gisburne sank to the floor.

oOoOo

Somebody must have come in while he was senseless, because he awoke on the bed. Morning sunlight filled the room. _That_ room. It was true then, not some bizarre dream. He felt petrified and closed his eyes again. Sometime today that disturbing woman would come and ask him if he was ready to become a better man. Which required him to agree that he was, at this time, a bad man. A thief, an oath-breaker, a murderer. A disgrace to knighthood. Curse her! He'd had reasons for the things he did. He'd do it all again. Not Ralph, perhaps, since that plan hadn't worked out after all, but other than that he didn't see why – he'd done things because those dirty Saxons had provoked him, or the sheriff had pushed him, or because…well, he'd had his reasons.

Nevertheless, he knew already that he would agree to her plan, even if it meant to humble himself before her, even if the 'hard work' she had spoken of was carrying stones in a quarry. Because in one respect he was glad about what had happened, whatever it might be. When he had been preparing for bed just before the _Event_ , he had been dreading the following day. But then Anna Sinclair's mysterious 'method' had taken him away from the consequences of his latest adventure, from the question of how to explain to the sheriff that the cart which should have contained the corpse of Robert of Huntingdon contained instead nothing but a pile of crumbling clay, and from the small issue of how to escape the wrath of the king. At least his life did not seem in danger here. Furthermore, he was glad to put as much distance as possible between himself and any trace of the Sons of Fenris, and it seemed as if he was very, very far from home indeed.

"Welcome to the 21st century," the Sinclair woman had said. Which was ridiculous, given that the 13th century had only just begun. On the other hand, he had seen such wonders – the white pottery walls, the light that came on and went off as if by magic, the glass that was not glass, the strange vegetable, the incredibly clear mirror – that he might well believe to be not only in another land but in another time. Could it be seven hundred years? No, eight hundred? She had said she would send him straight back to where he had come from, and it dawned on him with terrifying clarity that he did not want to go back, not to what expected him there. If she could send him back the way she had brought him here, he was in her power. He would have to play along at least until he found a way to escape and see for himself what lay beyond those trees. He opened his eyes for the second time and sat up on the edge of the bed.

Someone had definitely been in the room. On a small table beside the bed he found a bundle of clothes. It was then that he realised that he had conducted his entire conversation with the Sinclair woman the day before in his night robe. Moreover, that his night robe was the only thing left to him from home. He felt reluctant to take it off, but didn't want to face the woman, or anyone else, in a state of undress again, so he unfolded the clothes. They had neither laces nor buckles nor any other means of fastening and he expected them to tear, but they simply stretched over his head and hips. The breeches were grey, the shirt and hooded tunic a light blue, and all smooth and soft to touch. There were shoes, after a fashion, and they at least had laces. He rolled up his night robe and placed it on the pillow. Then he looked under the bed for a chamber pot but there was none. Before this could become a more pressing problem, he remembered the words of the serving wench. He went to the white pottery room, lifted the lid on the seat and stared at the gaping white bowl. There was water at the bottom. Was it some kind of well? Was he supposed to foul it? Gingerly, he pressed the button the woman had mentioned, and jumped back when a cascade of water filled the bowl – and simply drained away. He considered the contraption for a moment, then he relieved himself into the bowl and pressed the button again. Right enough, his waste was carried away and the bowl left with only some clear water. "Ah," he said. Another miracle.

The door opened and the Sinclair woman came in.

"Good morning! I've brought you breakfast." She set down a tray on the table by the bed.

"Why didn't the serving wench bring it?"

"The serv–? Oh, you mean Fran. She doesn't start till eleven. Don't call her a serving wench. She's our dinner lady."

"She is a lady?"

The Sinclair woman sighed. "Never mind. There's a lot for you to learn, but not just now. Come on, have some breakfast. Be careful, the tea's hot."

So he ate bread as soft as snow and almost as devoid of taste, and slices of a yellow substance that she assured him was cheese, though it, too, lacked flavour. The beverage she had called tea tasted sweet and potent. Anna Sinclair lifted a curved yellow object from the tray. "This," she said, "is a banana, a fruit. It comes from far away countries. Africa and so. You eat it like this." And she pulled and stripped away the object's skin and held it out to him. "Try it, it's lovely. And good for you."

Warily, he bit into the pale fruit and had to admit that she was right. It was lovely indeed. How strange to eat a fruit that had come all the way from Africa.

"I've had my knuckles rapped by my boss," said the woman. He glanced at her hands, but they were whole and without blemish. "Professor Michael Watford, he runs this project. He says I was too confrontational with you. So we should start again today and assume that I didn't call you all those things yesterday. Anyway, did you sleep well?"

"I slept soundly." Why did she want to know that? Nobody had asked him anything like this ever before.

"And did you have a chance to think?"

"I have thought about what you said yesterday, my Lady Sinclair."

She snorted. "Your Lady Sinclair?"

Two perpendicular lines appeared between his eyebrows. "I am trying to be respectful, and you laugh at me?"

"I'm sorry. Look, times have changed and people are a lot less formal. Please call me Anna."

"Lady Anna?"

"Just Anna."

"Anna," he said slowly, as if tasting the name. Still frowning, he cast a wary glance at her. "And in return, you will call me Guy?"

"If you want."

"Is that the correct thing to do?"

"It would be the normal thing to do."

"Then call me Guy."

"Good choice!" She smiled. Her eyes were warm and honey-coloured, like her hair. "I interrupted you. You were saying you had thought about things."

"Yes. I am willing to go along with your plan. I don't understand, though, what it is. What are you proposing to do?"

"Get to the root of your anger and self-loathing. Examine your key experiences and your feelings about them, address any trauma and find ways to move on."

"How? How will you do that?"

"Well, I think we should begin with the most relevant issues in your current life, your regular relationships with people in your environment –"

"But _how_?"

"Oh." Now it was for her to frown and look puzzled. "By talking about it, of course."

"Talking?" He shook his head. "What good is talking going to be? I am a man of action!"

"And in your experience so far, have your actions achieved the desired results?"

"My actions have achieved –" Guy stopped and glared at Anna. "Is this how these talks are going to go?"

"Guy," she said softly, "I'm not trying to put you on the spot. But believe me that talking about things can really help you to understand yourself better. And if there are things that are hurting you, it can help heal them if you share them with someone. It can be painful to face these things, but whatever you tell me, I promise I won't use it against you. I can see your pain and I really want to help you. Do you think you can get yourself to trust me?"

He regarded her cagily, her calm composure, her coaxing smile. She frightened him, because he felt instinctively that there was no way he could frighten her.

"What choice do I have?"

"I won't let you down. Really, I promise. Now, can you tell me three things that make you angry?"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

What _didn't_ make him angry? _Who_ didn't make him angry? Guy talked for the best part of two hours. He couldn't remember ever having been invited to do anything that gave him so much satisfaction.

He was angry with Anna for sitting there so smug and unruffled, but that was merely the beginning of his monumental wrath. First and foremost he was angry with the outlaws for making a fool of him time and time again. And he was angry with the people of Wickham for their stubborn support of the outlaws and their lack of respect for their betters, namely, him. Angry with Herne, that antler-headed quack, for giving a Saxon peasant ridiculous ideas of being the chosen hero of the people and for bestowing on him that cursed Albion, as if fights should be decided by magic rather than swordsmanship. He was angry with his own soldiers, for being so incompetent and letting themselves die like flies as soon as an outlaw longbow was drawn. With King Richard for humiliating him in front of the outlaws, and with King John for pretty much everything the man had ever done.

He was angry with Marion and with Friar Tuck for joining the outlaws and making it all look so easy. Angry with the Duke of Gloucester and that harpy Hedwisa for getting him involved in their disastrous scheme. With Queen Isabella the Strumpet who set him up to be laughed at, yet again, by the outlaws. Angry with the Abbot Hugo, for… for… for being the Abbot Hugo. With the idiot Henry for failing to kill Sir Richard of Leaford. With the Baron de Belleme for snatching away the jewels that would have bought his freedom. With Bertrand and his useless mercenaries, who left him in the forest to be hunted by trees, by trees!

He was also angry with Mildred de Bracy, the whiny brat, for bragging about how beloved she was. With Sarah de Talmont for leading him on and then scoffing at his feelings. With that stupid witch Jennet and her soppy love for her soppy husband. With all women he'd ever met, because none of them ever looked at him the way he'd seen Marion look at Loxley.

Obviously he was angry with Robert of Huntingdon for frolicking about in the woods when he could have been an Earl, for sneering at his own heritage and making common cause with the dirty Saxons. And for that barbed and poisoned comment about a trained swordsman being bested by a peasant – oh, how he knew that this was aimed at him!

He was angry with Grendel for making him choose Fenris and with the revolting Gulnar for scarring him with the wolf's claw. Angry with Scarlet-Scathlock for scoffing at the same choice and spitting on it, making him, Sir Guy of Gisburne, look the coward.

Even more, he was angry with his father, his so-called father, for treating him like a dog, and with his mother for being the cause of it. Truth be told, he was angry with the man who fathered him for fathering him and with his mother for having given birth to him. He was angry with God for making him who he was and putting him in a world that offered him nothing but shame and rejection.

Most of all, of course, he was angry with Robert de Rainault for degrading him in every imaginable way and then discarding him after years and years of exploitation, for throwing him to the wolves in a single, callous act of betrayal.

He was more than angry. He was furious beyond expression. Nothing ever worked out right. Nobody ever gave him his due. Everyone, everything was always conspiring against him.

When he had talked himself to exhaustion, the scenes of the past faded and he became aware again of Anna's presence and of her steady, earnest look. She nodded slowly.

"That surely is a lot of anger," she said. "Seems you are angry with practically everybody you know."

"Yes." He felt too drained to make more of a reply.

"How are you feeling now?"

How was he feeling? He wasn't really sure how he felt, but when he checked he realised he wasn't currently feeling the anger he had just described.

"Tired," he said at last.

"Okay. We'll stop here. We've worked long enough for today anyway. I am giving you two tasks to think about for tomorrow. The first is to go over this whole list again and distinguish between those people you hate because they deliberately did harm to you and those you hate because you envy them in one way or another. The second is to think of any examples of when you have been angry with yourself."

"Why would I be angry with myself?"

"Oh, there may be reasons that occur to you once you think about it carefully. But don't worry about it right now; take a rest. I'll get Fran to bring you some books with your lunch. Oh, and one more thing, a doctor will see you this afternoon for a health check. Don't get scared."

"I am a soldier! I don't get scared."

"Sure." She suppressed a grin. "Sure you don't."

And out she went.

oOoOo

The doctor, a silver-haired man with an enormous beard, subjected Guy to a long succession of mystifying, at times humiliating and even painful procedures, all the while maintaining a perfectly amiable manner. He checked the wound on Guy's shoulder with some utterances of concern and applied a pungent ointment to it. "That should be better in a couple of days." Guy had not much faith in physicians but figured that it would probably not make things worse.

Fran did indeed bring two books with the lunch. They were slender and bound in a glossy material. _The_ _Canterbury Tales_ was written on the cover of one and _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_ on the other. He pushed them aside and reached for the banana.

oOoOo

There was no banana the next morning, but an egg-shaped green fruit that Anna called a Kiwi. When he asked whether it came from Africa too, she shook her head.

"No, from New Zealand, on the other side of the Earth. Don't worry about it."

"I liked the banana better." _The other side of the Earth?_

"I'll tell Fran. Right then, let's sort through your villains and see who you should be angry with and who not."

"I'm angry with all of them."

"Yes, I'm aware of that. But some of that anger is justified, very justified, I would say, and some of it isn't. You have some healthy anger and some unhealthy anger, so-to-speak. It will be easier to deal with it once we know which is which."

"What's the difference? I can't see any difference."

"Well, I'll start you off with an easy example: Mildred de Bracy. You said you were angry with her because she told you about her lover and you felt she was bragging to you. Would it be right to say that you thought she was making a comment about you being unloved?"

Guy gave no reply and hoped his resentment to the very question wouldn't show on his face.

"You see," she said, "the word 'brag' implies that the bragging person considers themselves superior to the person bragged to, because they have something the other person doesn't have. Is that correct?"

"I suppose."

"So, if you say Mildred was _bragging_ to you about being loved, it means that in your view she had something you don't have. Something desirable that you lack. Otherwise the word 'bragging' makes no sense."

"Hm."

"Is that how you felt at that moment? That the fact of your being unloved was being pointed out to you in an insensitive manner?"

He breathed audibly. "Yes," he said, almost against his will.

Anna briefly put her hand on his arm. "That was hard for you to admit," she said gently. "Well done for being honest. So, Mildred's words were hurting you because they reminded you that you were living a life without love. In response, you got angry with her. Now ask yourself a simple question: How well did she know you?"

"I had escorted her from her father's home the day before. We'd shared the evening meal."

"So she hardly knew you at all?"

"Hardly."

"She couldn't possibly know your personal circumstances?"

"No." He glanced at the ceiling, uncomfortable. However, something was beginning to take shape, some idea that threw a different light on the situation. For a flicker, he thought he knew what Anna had meant when she said talking would help. "I see what you are getting at. Mildred didn't make any comment on me at all, because she couldn't know."

"Exactly. She was speaking of her own life, and you merely happened to be there to hear it."

"You are saying I shouldn't have felt angry?"

"It's pointless to tell people how they should feel. Sometimes, though, a feeling is only covering up another feeling that we cannot bear. I think anger comes easily to you and you have cultivated habits of expressing it – shouting, bullying your subordinates, attacking villagers, meting out draconian punishments etc. Think about it, though, is that really how you feel about being unloved? Or is there perhaps another feeling hidden behind the anger? Take your time."

He closed his eyes and tried to recall the situation. There was Mildred's back turned to him as she prayed in the chapel. He had admonished her that the sheriff was waiting and her reply had surprised him after the meek and miserable way she had behaved the previous day. And her pride in the love she professed to have inspired, the glow of happiness it gave her in spite of her gloomy prospect – it had stung him. He could feel it again now and this time, by keeping the anger at bay, he was able to recognise it.

"Yes, there is."

"Do you want to tell me what it is?"

"Sadness."

She touched his arm again. "That's an important insight, Guy. Hold on to that. At the moment, I think, you don't know how to express sadness and we'll need to find ways of doing that. For now, it's enough to know that the real feeling here is sadness and that the anger is simply your own way of distracting yourself from the sadness. Or to put it another way, I believe you chose to be angry so that you didn't have to deal with being sad. You did this again and again, over many years, until you no longer had any idea that you were sad." She paused and regarded him. "Does that make any sense to you?"

"I don't know. Maybe." But he knew already that she was right. Perhaps he should admit that much. She might praise him again. "I … I think what you said is the truth." There.

"Very good. Now that we have a basis to work on, it will be a lot easier. So try to think: Who has given you real reason to be angry, and who, on the other hand, has made you feel sad or left out?"

In spite of Anna's optimism, the task remained a challenge. Grudgingly he conceded that Jennet and Sarah had done him no wrong and had indeed proven themselves virtuous in rejecting him, thus keeping faith with the men to whom they were rightfully bound. He also granted, after considerable resistance, that neither Gulnar nor King John had targeted him personally, and were besides simply insane, and that it had been his own choice to join Hedwisa and the Duke of Gloucester in their assassination plot. After the lengthy struggle that brought these results, Anna allowed him a break and introduced him to a beverage called coffee before she tackled the issue of the outlaws. He pulled up his chin. There was no way, no way he would let her persuade him that the outlaws were not to blame. They were behind every calamity that had befallen him, always ready to trip him up and sneer at him. Marion had nearly killed him with that crossbow. And Loxley, grinning, arrogant Loxley, with his silly hair and lofty opinion of himself, Loxley who had called him _boy_ in front of the king…

"You do understand that Loxley had good reason to hate you? You threw him and his foster brother in the dungeons and threatened to have their hands chopped off, and then you killed his foster father. The way he saw it, he was standing up against wanton cruelty and injustice. Besides, in all the fights that followed, you each gave as good as you got."

"But he was a Saxon peasant and I am a Norman knight! He broke the law!"

"A law he considered unjust. From his point of view, Normans are invaders and oppressors. And a historian would probably agree with him. Of course, the same could be said about the Saxons with regard to the Celts, but that's another matter. You didn't have right on your side, only might."

"He humiliated me! He nearly drowned me! I hate him, hate him!"

"He is dead," said Anna quietly. "Dead, mourned and much missed. You live."

Guy lowered his head and furrowed his brow. "I know what you are trying to say. If I had died in his stead, nobody would have mourned and missed me."

"No, I wasn't trying to say that," she replied. "Though it's probably true. What I wanted to say is, rather, that he is forever beyond your reach, nothing you can say or do can touch him anymore, yet you live on and you carry this hatred with you everywhere. It harms nobody but yourself. Perhaps you could just let it go. You know, because it would lighten your load."

His head sunk even lower. He rested his elbow on his knee and his forehead in his palm. The wisdom of Anna's words slowly seeped into his mind and he wondered if she was some kind of witch. If so, he felt inclined to yield to her craft, because it was true, all the hatred was a heavy load to carry and the prospect of laying down this burden was alluring. However –

"I don't know how."

"Perhaps not. You're not ready. We'll be patient." For the third time this day, she reached out for him. This time, she rested her hand lightly on his shoulder. "You have done incredibly well today, Guy. We have made huge progress. Take it easy for the rest of the day. How do you like those books Fran brought you?"

"I don't like books much."

Anna lifted her eyebrows as if bewildered by such a notion.

"They, um, give me headaches."

"Okay ..." She seemed disappointed. "But I can't leave you sitting here all afternoon with nothing to do."

"I have much to think about."

"Are you sure?"

"I am not sure of anything anymore. I will be glad to be alone."

"All right then."

Anna left and not much later Fran appeared with a lunch tray. He asked her about the other room and she showed him how to fill the large bowl with steaming hot water. He lay in the bath all afternoon.

oOoOo

On the fourth day, breakfast (banana included) appeared alongside a lanky young man with curly ginger hair and a freckled face. He set down the tray and, grinning, held out his hand.

"Hi, I'm Justin, your adaption officer."

"Where is Anna?"

"Don't panic, pal, she'll see you later today. But you and I have got a different job to do. I'm supposed to make you fit for the 21st century. Explain to you all the stuff that'll stump you otherwise. You'll have to learn to cook, drive, use public transport, ICT skills, household chores, shopping, the lot. You know, Anna will help you sort out your past and I'll help you sort out your future."

Guy snorted. "I have a future?"

"Of course you do. There's an all-singing-all-dancing world waiting for you. Here." He pulled a wad of parchment from a pocket at his back and flung it on the table. "This is called a newspaper. Published daily with, well, with news. There are lots of different ones, this one's local, means it only has stuff about what happens in the town here. I want you to read it every day, so you get a sense of the place."

Guy looked at the thing. He had never seen such tiny letters, and the pages, though broken up by illuminations, were crowded with words. His heart sank. "Do I have to?"

"Well, you should at least try."

"Reading gives me headaches."

"That's too bad. I think Anna has some notion that you could gradually read your way through English literature and then arrive mentally in the 21st century. She'll be miffed if you don't do it, because she spent ages hunting for all the important books." He glanced about the room. "And I see you've already shoved them under your bed."

A very faint twitch of guilt tugged at Guy. He bent forward and picked up one of the books, the one called _Canterbury Tales_. It was surprisingly light. He flicked it open and turned some pages.

"Why is your parchment so thin?"

"It's not parchment, it's paper. Made from trees."

"From trees?"

"Yeah, mushed, pulped, mixed with glue, flattened with rollers, hung up to dry. Something like that. Doesn't get invented until way after your time, I think. Or the Chinese invented it first, as usual. And, also as usual, I digress. My other task with you is to ensure that you don't get stir-crazy in here, so just stand still while I tag you."

With swift movements, he fixed something around Guy's left wrist. It looked almost like shackles, except that it was entirely useless, being attached only to one arm.

"What's this?"

"Tracking device. So we can find you in case you run away, which, however, I totally don't recommend. Eight hundred years is a long time, let me tell you, and you don't stand a chance out there on your own with all the dangers. Cars, for example. They are very fast and they can kill you."

"What weapons do they use?"

"Ha! See what I mean? Just don't run away, if you have any sense."

Justin opened the door and ushered Guy through. The moment he stepped out, Guy realised that forcing an escape would have been nigh impossible, because beyond the door lay nothing but a short narrow passage that ended in a yet more forbidding door. Justin pressed some buttons on a square panel set into the wall. The forbidding door opened.

"What's happening now?"

Justin grinned. "Anna says you're full of anger. So I'm going to introduce you to a charming young sandbag."

Beyond the door they entered a large chamber full of varied and confusing furnishings. Guy would have liked to ask about the more obscure-looking items, but Justin led the way across and urged him to follow. They went along another passage and into a room that appeared to be some kind of torture chamber. Various machines of interrogation stood waiting and two of them were occupied with groaning, sweating men. There was, however, no interrogator to be seen. One whole wall was entirely made of windows, overlooking yet more anonymous trees.

In one corner, an enormous leather bag hung suspended from the ceiling. Justin patted it.

"Here, this'll do you good. Wait a minute while I get you gloves."

Justin disappeared into an adjacent chamber and returned with a pair of leather gloves that could have fitted a behemoth. "Put these on."

"They are too big."

"They're padded. They'll fit you all right. Okay, I'm not a boxing coach, but it's not as if we want you to enter the Olympics anyway. Just give you a physical vent. So as far as I'm concerned, all you have to do is to hit that sandbag and imagine it is the sheriff. And make sure the bag doesn't hit you when it swings back."

"This was Anna's idea?"

"No, mine. She just said you needed to get rid of angry tension. Go on, give it a try."

"A sword might be a better choice."

"Yeah, as if we'd let you loose with a sharp weapon. Punch it, come on!"

So Guy landed his first punch against the sandbag, then another, and once he got going, there was not holding back.

oOoOo

Anna sat at her PC in the open-plan office and reviewed the recording of the previous day's session with Guy. There it was again. She cringed. If Michael saw this clip, she'd be in trouble. Absolutely not was she supposed to touch the client, and there she had done it three times. What had she been thinking?

The thing was, after Michael had told her that she needed to muster compassion for Guy, she had done the basic empathy exercise she had omitted before: she had tried to put herself in his shoes. Up until then, she had to admit, she had judged him from the viewpoint of the outlaws, or his victims in general. When she changed the perspective, as she ought to have done in the first place, the result was an unexpected and overwhelming wave of sympathy. Suddenly, he was _poor Guy_ and she wanted to hug him. She wanted to hold him close and tell him that everything would be all right, that she would make it so. This, obviously, was not the professional detachment which her role required.

With a sigh, she deleted the video, keeping only the audio track of the clip. Leanne, who had been in the control room, would keep mum. Anna plugged in her ear-phones and began to transcribe the session. It was hard to concentrate, though, with guilt and doubt nagging at her.

She knew she was both an excellent counsellor and a piss-poor one. Excellent because her keen, penetrating intelligence allowed her to analyse a client's experience accurately almost at first glance. Guy was very much an open book to her after her study of the source material; analysing him was practically unsporting. What made her a piss-poor counsellor, though, was her regular struggle, and regular failure, to keep her own emotions in check. Michael had noticed this and warned her accordingly after the first session. If he found out to what extent her feelings had swung the other way, he might take her off the case without blinking. That's why she had deleted the evidence, which was, of course, another unprofessional thing to do. She'd have to be more careful.

From the corner of her eyes, she saw that someone came into the room. She turned round. It was Justin, with a red-faced and panting Guy in tow. She pulled out her ear-phones.

"Hi, how'd it go?"

"Smashing," said Justin. "Guy nearly knocked himself out boxing."

"Oh, boxing? Good thinking, Batman. Guy, you look like you need a drink. See that thing over there? That's a water cooler. You just pull out a cup and – wait, I'll show you."

She demonstrated and Guy accepted and drained the cup without a word.

"So, you took it all out on the sandbag, did you? How did that feel?"

"I crushed his stupid face."

Justin grinned. "That's the spirit."

"Whose face?" asked Anna warily.

"I told him to imagine the sandbag was de Rainault."

"Justin! I said to give him some exercise to work off tension. Not hype him up for violence."

"Oh, chill, Anna, it worked just fine. He's feeling a lot better, aren't you, Guy?"

"I feel tired."

Anne logged off the computer and steered Guy back to his room. "Thanks, Justin," she said over her shoulder. "Maybe just try the weight machines tomorrow."

Back in the room, Guy stood awkwardly, holding on to the paper cup.

"I think there's a bin in the bathroom," said Anna as she sat down. He looked bewildered. "To put that cup in," she clarified. "In the rubbish," she added, since he still made no move. She stood up again, took the cup out of his hands and plunged it into the swing-lid bin under the sink. "There."

"You threw it away?" he asked, nonplussed. "What will I drink from next time?"

"Another cup." Anna took her seat for the second time. "All right, all right, it's the terrible throw-away culture of our time. Waste of resources, landfill sites, big eco problem. I'm wrong, you're right. I'll get you a mug with your name on it and you can drink out of that always, okay?"

"You are displeased."

"No, I'm not, I'm just – oh, never mind. I feel a bit snappy, that's all." She inhaled. Seriously, she had to get herself under control. "Come and sit down, Guy." Casually, she slid her chair away from his so he'd be out of her reach. "Let's start where Justin left you: with de Rainault. Tell me."

"What do you want me to tell you about him?"

"Anything that springs to mind."

"I hate him."

"Yes, we have established that firmly enough. Do you know why?"

"I have told you before."

"You have, but I am unclear about a few things. For example, why didn't you leave? You made a couple of half-hearted attempts, but you didn't follow through. You always returned to him. Why?"

"I don't know." He crunched up his features and Anna almost felt the strain of thinking radiating off him. "Perhaps I thought…I thought things would get better. If I tried hard enough, if I did things the way he wanted me to, he would treat me better. I thought he might be like a father. Or a friend. But he never changed, no matter what I did. "

Anna waited.

"And I kept thinking," he continued, "that he must be right to hold me in such low esteem. That is was my fault and I wasn't worth anything else."

"You blamed yourself?"

"Yes."

"I see. Guy, it's common in an emotionally abusive relationship that the victim blames themselves and thinks if they could only get things right, the abuse would stop. That's a delusion, though. The abuser doesn't abuse you because you deserve it. They abuse you because they are an abuser. And they won't stop, no matter what you do, as you realised yourself. The only way out is to leave."

"And now I have left. It's finished."

Anna sighed. Perhaps she was expecting too much, too soon. On the other hand, she couldn't see how he could progress without addressing the central issue.

"Right," she said, "let me recap what you told me before: Your issue with de Rainault is that he constantly mocked and belittled you, that he bossed you around and disregarded your counsel even when you were demonstrably right like when you realised that Robert of Huntingdon was the new outlaw leader, that on numerous occasions he set you up to fail and then blamed you if things went wrong, that he manipulated you, that he denied you opportunities to distinguish yourself, that he told you off in front of others, that he didn't support you when he should have, that he betrayed you to save his own skin. Anything else?"

"Isn't that enough?"

"Yes, but I have an inkling that there is another thing."

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Guy, is that really everything?"

"It's everything!" he roared. "Stop asking!" His face turned red and he clawed at the armrests of his chair.

Unperturbed, Anna wrote on her clipboard. She took her time, but eventually she looked up.

"Okay, listen. You and I have got to know each other a bit over the last few days, haven't we?"

Guy bit his lip and nodded.

"And you realise that I'm on your side?"

Another nod.

"You trust me?"

A pause, then, "As much as I trust anyone."

"Fair enough. Now, Guy, listen carefully. Hidden things make you suffer. To help you feel better, they need to come out into the open. I promise that whatever you tell me will not shock me and will not make me think less of you. Do you understand?"

He shook his head. "I'm sorry I shouted at you, Anna. But I have nothing else to tell you about de Rainault."

"Okay then. We'll call it a day. But I think you are making a mistake in not telling me. I have a fairly good idea of what you're holding back, and if you don't –" Shit, she wasn't supposed to pressurise him like this. "Never mind. I'll see you tomorrow. Please at least try to read the books. I see Justin has brought you a newspaper as well; that'll be really useful for you. It would be nice to know that you're making some kind of effort."

oOoOo

After Anna had left, Guy ran a bath. Fran had shown him a bottle of a viscous blue liquid which, she said, would make the water smell nice. The bottle was fairly large, so he only took half. He was somewhat alarmed when a mountain of foam rose from the water and he nearly called for help, but then he felt silly. What would people think of him if he was seen to be scared of a bathtub full of water? Eventually, the foam subsided a little. Guy stretched out in the tub.

With his eyes closed, he reviewed the day. Meeting Justin had been a great relief, since he wasn't nearly as alarming as Anna could be. And he had enjoyed punching the sandbag. In spite of what Anna had said, it had not made him more inclined towards violence, but had rather drained away some of his rage.

If only Anna hadn't brought up de Rainault and been so insistent in trying to discover his secret. Did she already know what it was? No matter, he would not tell her. How could he tell this to anyone, let alone to an attractive woman? But it worried him that she had spoken of him making a mistake. That had sounded like a threat. He had not forgotten that she had promised to send him back if he didn't cooperate and the thought made him cringe. Not only did he not want to go back to de Rainault, he didn't want to leave this world of comfort, of brilliant lights, of warm, draught-free rooms, of hot water pouring out of walls. Having seen such marvels, it would be a drag to leave the shining porcelain and go back to the world of stinking garderobes. More importantly, though, he wanted to continue what Anna called their 'work' even if she asked him questions he was not prepared to answer. For years, for as long as he could remember, a revolting mixture of shame, hurt and anger had suffocated him like mud dragging him under. But by some miraculous twist, a hand had reached out to him and begun to pull him out of that quagmire. He knew he was still up to his chest in sludge, but he had tasted fresh air and he craved more of it.

He left the bath, dressed for bed and picked up _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight._

If Anna wanted him to read books, he'd read books.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The following day Anna didn't push him too much. Instead of digging into his past, she asked him a long list of questions about his current feelings. This was, she said, to determine his levels of anxiety and depression. Later Justin took him again to the room he called the _gym_ and let him punch the sandbag. "We won't tell Anna," Justin said with a grin. "But the weight machines aren't nearly as much fun." In the afternoon, Guy had another bath, simply because he could, and then he wrestled with _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_ until his throbbing head forced him to put the book aside.

When the door opened, he thought it would be Fran with his dinner, but instead Anna came in accompanied by a most startling man. He didn't wear the blueish breeches like everyone else, but grey ones with sharp, straight creases down the front. His shirt was very white and smooth and a narrow strip of colourful fabric hung from his throat over his chest. What was alarming about him, though, was his face or rather the contraption placed on his face. Two pieces of glass, wrapped in wires that disappeared behind the ears, covered his eyes. This, and the sudden sensation of having met him before when clearly he hadn't, made Guy take a step back.

"Visitor for you, Guy," said Anna. "Nothing to worry about. I'll leave you to it."

"Pleased to meet you at last, Mr Gisburne," said the man. "I am Professor Michael Watford; I supervise this project. You're in capable hands with Dr Sinclair and you won't see much of me, but I will come from time to time to hear how you are getting on."

Guy gave a curt nod of acknowledgement. The man looked spookily familiar. Big, dark eyes, narrow face, determined chin. Only the hair seemed wrong, and of course the odd glass and wire device.

"Shall we sit down?" said the unsettling visitor and took his own advice without waiting for an answer. Guy followed suit. "So, you've been here a full week now."

"Five days!"

"That's what I meant, a full working week. You have had daily sessions with Dr Sinclair. How have these been going?"

"Dr Sinclair said talking will help me."

"And do you find it helpful?"

"Strangely, yes."

"Could you go into more detail?"

"I am understanding better. About things that happened. And about me."

Professor Watford looked at him expectantly, even made a slight gesture with his right hand to encourage him to continue, but Guy couldn't think of anything else to say. The professor shrugged.

"And how about your sessions with Mr McDougal?"

"Who is that?"

"Your adaption officer? The young man who takes you to the gym?"

"Justin."

"Yes. How are you getting on with him?"

"He's told me what things are called. Gym. Pen. Plastic. Um … hoodie. And other things. He's also shown me how to use things like the shower and the electric shaver. I'm learning. I have tried to read the newspaper, too, that Justin gave me." He didn't mention that he'd given up after five minutes because nothing had made any sense to him.

"Excellent, excellent. It's good that you're making an effort. The more you engage with the process, the quicker you will settle into the 21st century. Now, Dr Sinclair reports that you are suffering from significant levels of anxiety. Much of that is, no doubt, a result of the circumstances. We will not do anything about it just yet, but if the anxiety continues, we might introduce medication. How are you sleeping?"

Guy gestured at the pallet bed. "On this."

"I mean, do you sleep well? Do wake up a lot? Do you have nightmares?"

"I sleep soundly."

"Good. And how does the food agree with you?"

"Agree with me?"

"Does it have any negative effect on your digestion? Are you going to the toilet all right?"

How could anyone ask such questions? And how could he answer them? "I… um...the food agrees with me."

"That's all good then. A very successful first week. Keep it up." Professor Watford shuffled his parchments, no, his _papers._ "Oh, one more thing. Tomorrow is Saturday. We operate a reduced staff at weekends, so you will see neither Dr Sinclair nor Mr McDougal until Monday. There will be someone here to bring you meals and if you need any help, but other than that you will be on your own. One of us will be on call, of course, in case of emergency. Will you be okay with that? Have you got plenty to read?"

Alas, he had. "I have a lot to think about. And there is the bath."

"You enjoy the bath?"

"Yes."

"Fine then. Is there anything you would like to ask me?"

"Yes. What is the sound that made me pass out?"

Professor Watson looked slightly embarrassed. "Well, you see, because of your, um, aggressive tendencies, you can be a danger to yourself and others. So we need to have a method of, um, sedating you."

"How does it work?"

"I do not propose to tell you. Anything else?"

Guy considered. "Why are you doing this? Bringing me here and doing all these things with me."

This was clearly not the kind of question Professor Watford had expected. He cleared his throat and tugged at the fabric round his neck.

"I thought Dr Sinclair had explained to you. We consider you a promising case, somebody who can benefit from our intervention. It is our view that the creators of your character burdened you with much suffering for the sake of entertaining an audience. This, to us, seems unfair and we want to redress the balance."

"So you dedicated yourself to me and my ilk? And all this –" Guy made an expansive gesture, "– you have created for that purpose?"

The professor shrugged. "We are a private research facility. Which means, basically, that there's a rich man who gets to play God. I assume you are not entirely unfamiliar with that phenomenon. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"No. Wait, yes."

"Well, what is it?"

"Bananas are great. But I'd like to have an apple once in a while. Do they still exist?"

oOoOo

It was Wednesday afternoon. Alastair Fotheringham had come to see "what people are doing with my father's money." His father had been dead five years and had only seen the very early days of the Chrysalis project, but Alastair still liked to cloak himself in the authority of the old man. He had requested for the meeting to be held in the observation room, because while he felt too wary to meet Guy face to face, he nevertheless wanted to cast a look at him.

"He seems peaceful enough," he remarked as he stepped away from the one-way mirror. "You have him drugged up to the hilt, Michael?"

"No. We've only needed to sedate him a couple of times. He's been to the gym and had a bath afterwards; that always makes him calm." Behind the glass, Guy flung _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_ into a corner. "When his reading doesn't give him problems, that is, but unfortunately it does. Dr Sinclair was wondering whether he might be dyslexic, but the test didn't flag up anything."

Other members of staff began to arrive and fill the spaces at the oval table. Michael opened the meeting.

"Thanks all for coming, and can I welcome Alastair. Alastair, I think you know everyone apart from Leanne; Leanne's our new junior counsellor." A tall, bespectacled young woman gave a smiling nod. "First of all, well done to the whole team for such a successful first extraction. We've worked incredibly hard towards this goal and I think we're all very excited to have come so far. There has been no measurable impact on the source material. The character is settling in well and has begun treatment. We've had a good medical report … Richard?"

The physician adjusted his bifocals and lifted up his notes. "He's in remarkably good health. Medieval living seems to be wholesome, at least if you're a nobleman. He has excellent lungs, excellent blood pressure, low cholesterol, excellent teeth, a good, strong heart –"

Anna snorted.

"– great muscle tone, sound joints. The wound on his shoulder needed antibiotics, but it's now healing well. It'll leave a nasty scar, but, well. There is a fair amount of older scar tissue, but nothing of concern. I'll administer the usual vaccinations over the next couple of weeks. His only physical weakness, as far as I can see, is his eyesight. We should refer him to an optometrist to correct his hyperopia. Otherwise, he's absolutely fine. Apart from the quite expectable fatigue, the extraction process has done him no harm."

"I should hope so, we worked hard enough on that," said Kate Howard, a mischievous-looking woman who represented the engineering team.

"The engineers really excelled themselves," said Michael in Alastair's direction.

"Well done, engineers," said Alastair in a tone which indicated that engineers were a necessary but uninspiring part of the operation. "So, we have the man here all in one piece. But what we're really interested in is his mind. Anna, what can you tell us?"

"Well." She faffed about with her pile of notes. "We are developing a rapport. So far he presents very much like we expected, lots of unresolved trauma, deep-seated self-loathing which is persistently projected onto his environment. His lack of self-awareness is extraordinary. He simply cannot see that he has done wrong. Still, I'd say he is responding to the treatment and beginning to open up. We have talked a lot about anger issues and have started to explore the attachment difficulties that stem from his childhood experience. I have tried to bring up the sexual abuse, but he is extremely averse to discussing it. It's early days, of course, and he has a very long way to go. I am cautiously optimistic, though, that the treatment will be a success."

"Will it be completed in the proposed time frame?"

"That's hard to say. Um … I think so, but you never know…"

"If the case if going to need more funding, I'd rather know in advance," said Alastair testily. "I'd have thought a professional would be able to give a more precise prognosis."

"Anna has made good progress with him these last few days," Michael intervened. "It is really much too early for anyone to predict exactly how the case will develop." Thankful for his support, Anna gave him a heart-felt look which he returned with a brief smile. "Shall we move on?" he continued. "Justin, what's your impression?"

"He needs to be active. Definitely should get a couple of hours of exercise every day. I got him boxing to begin with, but obviously we want to expand the range of activities."

"Boxing?" said Alastair. "Is that wise? I'd have thought he was aggressive enough already."

"Well, I was sceptical, too, but it seems to have a cathartic effect," said Anna.

"Oh, absolutely," said Justin. "Gentle as a lamb when we come out of the gym. Just wants his bath and his dinner."

"And the excessive bathing, is that a neurotic sign? Obsessive compulsive?"

"Nah, I don't think so. I mean, if you'd just beamed here from the Dark Ages and suddenly you had access to hot running water and all the bubble bath you can handle, wouldn't you lie in the tub all the time too? The shower is nothing in comparison."

"It's not the Dark Ages, it's the High Middle Ages," mumbled Anna under her breath. "A period of cultural excellence." Michael grinned.

"Anyway," Justin went on, "I've started to introduce him to all our mod cons and he's not as thick as was suggested. He's picking up things reasonably quickly. Freaked out totally when I asked him to have an electric shave, but he managed it in the end. He's a hands-on kind of man. I think he can't read well, but after what Richard said, maybe he just needs glasses."

While Justin was subjected to some interrogation from Alastair, Anna doodled on her notes. She felt uncomfortable with all this talking about Guy in his absence, as if he were a child or an imbecile. One who had to drink out of a plastic cup and eat all his food with a spoon.

"Can we not give him a more comfortable bed?" she blurted out. "Or at least a duvet that's not made out of Kevlar?"

"It's not Kevlar, it's merely tear-proof," said Michael.

"He's not suicidal."

"Okay, okay." He put his hand on hers. "What brought this on?" he whispered.

"Oh, I don't know," she whispered back. "It doesn't seem right, the way we treat him."

"Shhh. We'll talk about that later."

The remainder of the meeting was, to Anna, deadly dull. Kate gave a long and incomprehensible report about the engineers' efforts to reverse the Chrysalis machine, and this was followed by an even less comprehensible report from the legal team. Anna thought of Guy in the next room; what was he doing, locked up with only a book that he didn't enjoy? Dress it up as they liked, he _was_ a prisoner and he probably knew it. It was all for his own good, but would he see it that way? She couldn't help thinking that their moral high ground wasn't as towering as they flattered themselves it was.

And she didn't like Alastair. A rich man playing God was what Michael called him, and it was true. Also, an arrogant and domineering prick. Shame he had all the money they needed. Michael, on the other hand, was being rather a darling today. Perhaps she didn't appreciate him enough. Perhaps the other ladies were right to envy her.

oOoOo

"Hey, Anna and Michael have decided that you're not a flight risk. So I can show you round the grounds a bit. Fancy some fresh air?"

Justin held open the door.

"We're going outside without armour?"

"Yes, silly. People don't wear armour these days. Well, maybe the president of America wears a bullet-proof vest, or someone like that, but not normal people."

"What if we get attacked by those cars you warned me of?"

"Cars don't _attack_ you, pal. And if they did, armour would be of little use. Here, I've brought a jacket for you. It's got a zip, very useful invention. Works like this, see, you fit this bit in here, make sure it's all the way down, then pull this bit up. It's easier when you're wearing it. Try it."

Obediently, Guy donned the jacket and attempted to work the zip as Justin had shown him. After some fiddling, he succeeded.

Justin grinned. "Just zip it up and down a bit, you know you want to."

"I do," said Guy, bemused. "But how did you know?"

"It's called people skills, I think."

Guy ran the zip up and down a few times. It was a most satisfying sensation.

"And this will protect me against the cars?"

"No, silly, it'll keep you warm. Quite chilly outside today. Right then, let's go." Justin led Guy through doors, across rooms and along corridors until they eventually came out on the lawn that Guy could see from his window. It felt odd to have open sky over his head again after more than two weeks indoors. His foot seemed to bounce on the springy grass.

He looked back at the building they had just left. Everything was rectangular. Just like the inside, there was neither stone nor wood nor wattle and daub to be seen. Instead, metal and smooth, painted surfaces made up everything that wasn't glass. The amount of glass was even more impressive from the outside than the sight of the many windows had been from within.

"It's no bad, eh?" said Justin. "But come round this way and I'll show you the grounds. Don't worry about anything. You're quite safe here. It's a sheltered place, Alastair Fotheringham's ancestral estate, miles from any major road. There is a security fence around the whole estate, so don't get any notions of running away."

Guy shook his head.

"Good man. You're tagged anyway." Justin slapped him on the back. "Now this," he said as they turned round the corner of the building, "is the front entrance with the car park. Those big metal things, that's the cars. As you can see, they are not people and they don't have weapons. They're what we use instead of horses."

"You _ride_ them?"

"No, we sit inside them, warm and dry, and they roll on their wheels, like carts. That's why they're called cars, really, I think."

"So where are the horses?"

"There are no horses. They move by themselves. They have engines, like, I don't know what machinery you even had back then, like a mill wheel maybe? But it doesn't need water to run. It's, um, it's complicated. You don't really need to understand how it works. Most people don't."

"How can they kill me?"

"As I said, they're very fast. If they knock you down, run you over, you're mush. So just be careful not to cross their path when they're moving."

They walked around the edge of the car park and up a slope. Guy asked about the dark, solid band that divided the lawn. "A road," said Justin. "Tarmacked so cars can drive on it. Sounds like one is coming, so let's watch."

The approaching sound was remotely like the roar of the sea. In spite of Justin's explanation, Guy was startled when the car came into view. A thing on wheels, moving all by itself – it seemed impossible not to think it was witchcraft. As the car drew nearer, he saw there was a person sitting inside. The person waved. It was Fran. Immediately, the car seemed a lot less uncanny.

They ascended the crest of the hillock and gazed down on a long, still lake, its shore dotted with willows. At the far end stood a building which, to Guy's surprise, looked somewhat like a castle and certainly not at all like the glass and metal building he had just left.

"That's the Fotheringham family home," explained Justin. "Fifteen hundred-something. I mean, the date. Renaissance. Bit closer to your time than to mine."

A path took them along the lake shore and into expansive woodland. A rabbit fled before them.

"You have good hunting in the woods, I expect?" asked Guy.

"Ha, no hunting, pal. Not on your nellie!"

"The king won't allow it?"

"The government won't allow it. Wildlife conservation, cruelty to animals and all that. It was banned completely four or five years ago. Mind you, there are always those who will still try it on."

"Insolent peasants and serfs!" cried Guy, excited at having found something that had not changed.

"No," said Justin. "Upper-class pricks."

Guy shook his head in mild despair. This 21st century was an upside down world indeed.

oOoOo

"You look right smart with your specs on, son! Makes a difference, eh, if you can see the world properly." He nodded. Fran picked up some clothes from the floor and draped them over the back of a chair. "You've got to stop being such a slob. No woman will put up with you if you don't learn to be a bit tidier."

"No woman will put up with me anyway," replied Guy gloomily.

"Nonsense, every pot has its lid. Oh, here's Justin. I'll get the door."

Justin came in panting under the weight of a huge rectangular object which he placed on the floor and attached to the wall by means of a thin black rope.

"Yay! Michael has finally okayed the telly."

"What is that?"

"A great invention, a machine that shows you, well, pretty much anything. TV is your friend. I tell you, you can learn a lot about our world from watching TV."

"What kind of things do I need to learn?"

"Oh, depends. Do you have any kind of education?"

"I know some Latin." This was stretching it a bit, but what else did he have?

"Fat lot of good that'll do. Maths would be better, how are you at maths? Or, I don't know, geography?"

"Um…"

"Well, never mind. People will accept that you might not know what the capital of Spain is, but they'll get suspicious if you say you've never heard of Michael Jackson. Okay, I'll set this up for you later, first let's get some exercise. Can you swim?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to go swimming today?"

Guy glanced at the window. Perpendicular strings of rain battered the ground. Was this some kind of trick or test?

"Do you people normally swim in weather like this?"

Justin laughed. "Never mind the weather. You'll see. Let's find you some swimming trunks."

Some swimming trunks were found. Ten minutes later, Guy nearly died from shame and lust when he saw Kate Howard in a bikini dive into the pool.

oOoOo

"Today," said Anna, "I would like you to tell me about Sarah de Talmont. She plays a crucial role, because as far as I can see she is the only person for whom you felt affection, or at least thought you felt affection. What drew you to her?"

"She was very pretty."

"Oh, come now. Lots of women are pretty. Why go after one whom you'd have to convert first, and for whose sake you'd have had to face all sorts of social reprisals?"

"I don't know."

"Think!"

"Well. She was very dignified. Very graceful, too. And there was … there was the way she cared for her father. She had such tenderness."

"And you thought you'd get yourself a share of that tender loving care by way of abduction and forced intercourse?"

"We did _not_ have forced intercourse!"

"But you were planning to."

Guy went red, and an angry expression flickered over his face. Then he averted his eyes and counted under his breath as Anna had taught him. "I lusted for her, yes," he muttered.

"So, you ride after her, find her in the forest, make your proposal and she rejects it. What was it she said to you?"

He looked away and said nothing.

"Guy, you've got to work with me here. I know it's hard, but please try."

He sighed. "She said everything about me disgusted her."

"Thank you, well done. Can you understand why?"

"No." He shook his head, but in a manner that indicated confusion rather than an objection to her question. "I had so much to offer her. She could have been an honourable woman, a Christian among Christians, welcome and respected wherever she went."

"You mean the same way you were welcome and respected wherever you went?" asked Anna gently. He cringed. "Sorry, you don't have to answer that. Though maybe think about it in your own time. But consider this: Sarah didn't want to become a Christian. She did not desire what you considered desirable. She wanted to live according to the ways of her people. And she was engaged, presumably to a man she liked. From her point of view, you had nothing to offer her."

" _Nothing_?"

"Nothing that I can see. But I believe you that you genuinely thought you were doing her a favour. I'll try and help you understand why she didn't think so. When you set out to catch up with her, what did you expect her reaction to be? How did you imagine the scene would play out?"

He made no reply but he was clearly thinking. Anna waited.

"I thought she would … be grateful …?" His voice had a particular tone which Anna had noticed a few times in recent sessions and which she believed indicated that he was gaining insights. "That I saved her and her family, I mean. I imagined that, well, the way I imagined it, she ended up in my arms." He paused, looking at Anna, whose face gave him no clues. "You're going to say I was naïve, aren't you?"

"With hindsight, do you think you were?"

"I was … I … in my mind … in my mind I was guided only by what I wished to happen. I didn't expect her to have wishes that were different from mine."

"You're doing well, Guy, that was a good analysis. You had made her a character in your own story, and when she didn't play the role you had allocated her, you felt what, shocked?"

He nodded. "I couldn't believe it. My mind refused to believe she said what she said. I carried on as if she hadn't said it or couldn't really mean it."

"And now? Can you believe now that she meant it?"

"It seems I have no choice but to believe it."

"And do you consider her ungrateful?"

Guy pushed his hair back with both hands. "I want to say yes, but you'll tell me I'm wrong. Won't you?"

"Well, I don't think she had any reason to be grateful to you. However, can you think of anything you might have done that _would_ have earned you her gratitude?"

"I don't know." His face and forehead worked. "Give her jewels?" He watched Anna's face. "That's not it, is it?"

Anna smirked. "Unlikely."

"What then? I told her I could give her anything she wanted, and she said she'd rather kill herself!"

"Maybe your idea of 'anything she wanted' didn't include anything she actually did want?"

"What then? Anna, tell me!"

"How about preventing the pogrom?"

His eyes widened. "But … how could I … the sheriff … what could I have done?"

"For a start, you could have argued with him that it was his duty to pay his debt and that de Talmont was in the right."

"The sheriff would never have listened to me."

"Did you try? Because you did try to tell him things on other occasions, even if he didn't listen."

"But even if I had…!"

"Okay, let's say the sheriff was not to be dissuaded. You warned the de Talmonts and they escaped. What stopped you from warning all the Jews in Nottingham?"

"But the sheriff! He would have found out!"

"You were leaving him anyway, weren't you? You could have saved the lives of several hundred people, instead of egging on the killers."

Guy's fists closed. "And if I had done that, you think she would have married me?"

"No. I think she would still have rejected you, but purely on the grounds that she was already engaged. Not because of you being a horrible person. Can you imagine it? _I thank you for the honour of your proposal, my lord. I am sorry to cause you pain, but I am_ _betrothed to another man. I hope you will find happiness with someone else_. How would that have felt in comparison to what she really said?"

"I would … No. She should have broken her engagement!"

"Why? Did you think your claim overruled the claim of the man chosen by herself and her father?"

"Of course! I am a Norman knight!"

"You still think that?"

"Well, yes!"

"Okay." Anna put her notes aside. "I'm not sure I'll be able to make you understand this, but I'll try. Do you think that you being a Norman knight is of any importance to me or Justin or anyone else here at Chrysalis?"

He shrugged. "I think not."

"You think correctly. And why not?"

"Because this is a different world."

"Exactly. What is important in your frame of reference isn't necessarily important in ours. Now, can you understand that the same is true for Sarah? Hers was a different world too. In her frame of reference, being a Norman knight was of no particular merit. Actually, even if she had been madly in love with you, she'd probably have seen it as a hindrance rather than anything else. In her estimation, a desirable man would be a pious Jew, scholarly perhaps, certainly someone her father would approve of. You didn't rank high in her world, however high you might rank in yours."

"I see. But doesn't the ranking of my world overrule – no, no, it wouldn't, would it?

" 'fraid not. Robin did you a favour that day, do you realise that?"

"How so?"

"If the outlaws hadn't returned Sarah to her family and if you had got away with forcing her to marry you, how do you think that would have worked out? In reality, not in your imagination?"

"Well, once we were settled as man and wife, she would have got used to – Wait, I am being stupid. She wouldn't have got used to it. She would have hated me."

"Yup. And possibly cut your head off while you were sleeping, like Judith. Or at least your hair, like Delilah."

"What?"

"Oh, stories from the Bible. You really need to read more, Guy."

"You're laughing at me."

"I'm trying to lighten the mood, honey. Look, this session was a slog, but I hope it's opened up some new perspectives for you. Think it over. I'll see you tomorrow."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Justin stared out the window at the relentless rain. "Okay, we need to think of you developing some interests, to make you a nice, well-rounded person. What kind of things do you enjoy?"

Guy thought for a moment. "I like the swimming pool and the gym. And on the TV, I like the programmes about spaceships. I like the magazines you brought me. Anna's books, not so much, but I'm trying."

"No, I mean what are the things that you've always enjoyed, from back ... home?"

"Oh. Horses." Guy's face lit up with memories, possibly the only pleasant memories he had at all. "I had a very fine horse. I wonder what has become of him."

"Ah. I don't think Michael has budgeted for buying you a horse. Anything else?"

"I don't know. I didn't think much about joy. I didn't expect any." He tilted his head to one side. "There's music. I like music."

"Excellent!" Justin beamed. "There is no limit to how much music we can give you. In fact, it's hard to think where to start. All the exciting music happened after your time. You have everything to discover, eight hundred years of culture which you don't need to read. I have an old MP3 player kicking about somewhere in the office, I'll go and get it. Prepare to have your mind blown."

Justin hasted away and Guy leaned back, assuming that this was yet another thing that wasn't meant to be taken literally.

oOoOo

"We're pulling Caroline Bingley on the 28th," said Michael. "You're familiar with the world; do you want to do this one?"

"Um, that's a bit much, isn't it? I _am_ working on a paper."

"Oh, I mean instead of Gisburne. I could take him over."

Anna grabbed Michael's sleeve. "Why? I thought I was doing okay? You've not said anything since the first time. What have I done wrong?"

"Nothing, you're doing fine. I just thought you'd be glad to be rid of him, given how much you dislike him."

She squirmed. "Oh. Well, I've kind of warmed to him a bit. He's making progress. There is a thinking, sensitive man under all the scars. Actually, I'd hate to give him up."

Michael considered her with probing eyes. She blushed and turned her head away.

"I see. You're a fool, Anna, if you indulge in any feelings for this man or think you can fix him up for yourself. He'll never be good enough for you, not with all the counselling in the world."

"Oh, and you are the judge of that?"

"Anna, have you forgotten what he is? A murderer, a brutal killer, probably a serial rapist."

"That's what he _was_. Are you trying to tell me he's irredeemable? Really? That kind of renders your whole project pointless then, doesn't it?"

"So now it's just my project? Don't be daft. We've worked on this together all along. But maybe we were wrong and this kind of thing just can't be done."

"Wait, what brought this on? I thought we were doing well?"

Michael leaned back on his chair and furrowed his brow. "I don't know. It's all a bit _Borg_ , isn't it? _You will be assimilated_. What gives us the right to do that? Maybe we should have left him alone."

"Don't say that! He is happier here. He is getting better every day. Since he's discovered Mozart he's completely hooked on music. I feel like a school teacher, having to make him take his earphones off so I can talk to him. He would have never known such delights if we'd left him in the 13th century."

"Anna, that's a stupid argument. If we took that view, we would have to pull the entire population of the Middle Ages."

"No, not the ones who had friends and families and knew how to be good. But poor Guy, he had nothing but bitterness and guilt. And now he has Mozart."

" _Poor_ Guy? What a softie you are, Anna," said Michael. "All right then, keep him. As long as you remember where the boundaries are."

"I will, I promise." She gave him a hug. "You're the best."

"I know. At times I wonder whether you know."

"Oh, I do, I do."

"And, Anna, one more thing. Make sure you take care of yourself. I don't want to see you get hurt."

"I'm a big girl, Michael, I can look after myself."

"Famous last words."

oOoOo

Later that week, Anna introduced Guy to a woman whom she called an _art therapist_. Her name was Nicky and she reminded him of an apple bobbing on water. She was young, barely twenty, and everything about her was round and rosy and cheerful. Black hair quivered around her face in messy curls.

"Nicky will help you to find ways of expressing your feelings through art. She'll come every Thursday for the whole afternoon. We won't do any counselling sessions on those days. I'll leave you in her hands. Be good – I'll hear about it if you're not." Anna winked and left them.

Nicky dumped a massive bag on the floor and grinned at Guy.

"Get your jacket on," she commanded. "We're going outside."

The day was still and golden. Gauzy streaks of mist hung across the valley. The sky stretched over it without a cloud. They walked across the lawn, Nicky bouncing ahead and Guy following in bewildered silence.

"Breathe that air!" cried Nicky. "Doesn't it smell wonderful?"

It smelled of damp wood and mushrooms and approaching rain, but Nicky was looking at him expectantly, so he inhaled deeply and nodded. She beckoned him along a narrow path under the trees and instructed him to listen to the leaves rustling underfoot. Guy listened. They made a rustling sound.

"What is it I am supposed to hear?"

"Just that," said Nicky. She picked up a red leaf and waved it under his nose. "Look at this!"

"It's a leaf. What about it?"

"What _about_ it?" Nicky sounded incredulous. "It's bloody gorgeous! The colours are amazing. Here, hold it up to the sun, see how vivid? And the veins, such a delicate pattern. The feathery shape, the glossy surface – it's absolutely splendid. Exquisite. A fine jewel."

"The leaf? That's not a jewel, that's a thing that fell off a tree."

Nicky shook her head. "You! No wonder you're miserable. Listen, man, you'll have no joy in life if you approach it from this angle."

"You're right, I _do_ have no joy in life."

"And this is why! Oh, just you wait!"

She swooped down, snatched a bunch of leaves and threw them at him. Guy didn't move. While he still tried to figure out what was going on and why Anna had sent him this madwoman, she did it again and then she shoved him, with both hands squarely on his chest, so that he staggered back and stumbled over something and fell flat on his back. Nicky giggled. "Got you!" she cried and began to pile leaves on him. "Take this, and this and this…" She grabbed another handful of leaves and stuffed them down the front of his jacket.

Dumbfounded by this ridiculous attack, Guy wondered whether Anna had any idea what this Nicky was up to. Art therapy – he had thought it would be something to do with painting.

"Oh, don't you just lie there, you useless lump! Defend yourself!"

It was a challenge? From a _woman_? Wait, no, could it be that it was a game?

He took a fistful of leaves in each hand and jumped up with a roar. Nicky shrieked and laughed. She tried to get away but he caught her by the ankle and brought her down. They rolled on the ground, chucking leaves at each other. Guy heard a second voice that had joined Nicky's laughter. It was his own. Amazed to find that he, Sir Guy of Gisburne, apparently had reason to laugh, he paused. Nicky wriggled out of his grasp and began to run. "Catch me, catch me!" she called. He bounded after her down the woodland path.

They ended up at the edge of the wood where the ground sloped steeply towards the lake. Nicky tripped him up, plunged after him and they both rolled down the grassy bank. Panting, they lay on their backs.

"That was fun," said Nicky.

"It's not over yet," replied Guy. He pulled the leaves out from his jacket and let them rain down on Nicky. She giggled and batted them away.

"Okay." She sat up and brushed off half the woodland that was clinging to her clothes and hair. "Now you've loosened up a bit, we'll try again. See this leaf? Describe it to me, in as much detail as you can."

He tried. Once he got past thinking, _It's just a leaf, this is ridiculous,_ it wasn't that hard. He described the gloss that reminded him of pottery glaze, and compared the edge to the frayed hem of a gown. He failed to do justice to the colours, for which he didn't have names, but which Nicky called _russet_ or _peach_ or _sienna_.

"Very good," she said eventually. "And now we'll take a whole bundle of these leaves back inside and paint them. Come on, first back to the woods!"

oOoOo

"I love these!" Anna said as she looked over his watercolour sketches. "Great colours. Did you enjoy the outdoors?"

"I did."

"And how do you like Nicky?"

"She is very, um, unusual."

"Of course she is, she's an artist. It would be unusual if she were just usual."

"Is that why she paints on her face?"

"She what? Oh, I see. No, that's just make-up. Many women wear it. Hey, this one's lovely. Fantastic textures. We should get it framed."

"Are we going to work today?" He grinned a little when he caught himself talking like Anna, giving the name _work_ to the occupation of sitting in a chair and talking _._

"Of course." Anna put the paintings aside and grabbed her notebook. "I'd like us to talk about a person whom you haven't mentioned much, but who I think we should really reflect on: Marion. What are your thoughts about her?"

"She escaped."

"On more than one occasion, yes. But I think you mean more by that?"

"She did what I couldn't do, escaped the de Rainaults' clutches. She got away from both brothers. And she never seemed to have any regrets. The sheriff sneered at her having gone native, and of course it was a terrible fall from grace to become an outlaw, but I felt on the whole she'd drawn the better lot."

"Because she was happy with the outlaws?"

"Yes."

"You said before that you were angry with her because she joined them and made it look so easy. Did you ever think of joining them yourself?"

"How could I do that!"

"I don't mean as a practical plan, not as something you would do for real. But did you ever imagine what it would be like if you could live with them, out there in the forest, and enjoy the warmth of their friendship?"

Guy turned to the window and gazed at the trees outside. It was uncanny how Anna always got into his head.

"I did, once or twice. I pictured myself sparring with Scarlet or with the Saracen and it would end with us laughing and shaking hands. Or Loxley giving me a task and I'd do it better than he expected and he'd be pleased." He shook his head. "They were childish thoughts. I didn't indulge in them."

"But you could have looked up to Loxley as a leader? More than to the sheriff? What if Loxley had been a Norman nobleman, a captain of your armies, a crusader even?"

The question seemed to take Guy by surprise. He stared at the ceiling and breathed out heavily. "I'd have followed him into the mouth of hell," he said at last.

"Interesting. And then you killed him."

Guy shook his head. "I wasn't there, remember?"

"I mean you, plural. You and the sheriff and all your men."

He said nothing for a while. Anna waited, pen at the ready.

"The sheriff was never serious about catching Loxley," Guy said. "Not until the king put a knife to his throat. He hated the king for that more than for anything else. You see, de Rainault couldn't possibly desire the death of such a handsome man, not –"

He stopped and averted his face, afraid that he had said too much.

"Yes, that had occurred to me too," she said. "I'd imagine he fancied Loxley like crazy. After all, most people did."

"Most people?"

"Oh, yes. Quite the heartthrob. People drooled over him."

"You too?"

"I'm no better than most."

They regarded each other for a while, as if each were about to say something very deep, but then Anna broke the silence by clicking her pen and jotting down some notes.

"We seem to have talked ourselves into a corner," she said. "Let's get back to Marion. Are there any other reasons why you envied her, other than that she got away from the de Rainault brothers?"

"I don't know."

"What about her relationship with her father?"

"I suppose."

"You suppose what?"

"He was a good man."

"And…?"

Guy shrugged. Anna continued to try for a while, but the rest of the session was fruitless and frustrating. They gave up and returned their attention to Guy's paintings until it grew dark outside.

As Anna opened the door, he called after her. "I couldn't have done it anyway."

She turned. "I'm sorry?"

"Joined the outlaws. I did think about it, when things were really bad with the sheriff. But I couldn't have done it. They wouldn't have had me. I killed the miller, remember?" He dropped his head on his knees. "By god, I wish I hadn't."

oOoOo

"All right then," said Anna the following morning. "Let's talk about Loxley. You'd have followed him into the mouth of hell, as you so vividly put it. Can you explain to me why?"

"It's hard."

"Just try."

Guy crunched up his eyebrows. "The first time I met him … he was with the boy, you know, the halfwit. And for all he knew, he was about to lose his hand. If that had been me…"

"What?"

"Well, losing a hand…"

"You mean you would have thrown the boy to the wolves to save yourself?"

"Yes. I would have thought that was natural, what anybody would have done. But he tried to protect the boy. If he did that much for a halfwit, how much more might he have done for me?"

"Hm. About the same, I would say, had you been his friend."

"He was willing to sacrifice himself…"

"He did, in the end." Anna glanced wistfully out the window.

"The sheriff, the abbot, they always wanted things for themselves. So did I. So did everyone, I thought. But he didn't, none of them did. Well, perhaps they did, but there was always _more_ than that."

"He was unselfishly loyal to his friends and he believed in something bigger than himself, is that it? That's what impressed you about him?"

"Yes. I think so."

"So you were not in love with him?"

"I'm not de Rainault!" spat Guy. "Whatever he made me do, I desire women!"

Which was true, in a general sense, though the full truth was that at this moment he didn't desire women, plural, in a general sense, but one woman in particular, and he felt an overwhelming urge to grab her and _prove_ it. However, he knew better than to give way to that urge, not only because previous experience had taught him that any violence on his part got him quickly drugged and laid out cold on the floor, but because he suspected that Anna would give him a dressing down that would make even Sarah de Talmont's tirade pale in comparison. So he merely clenched his fists and treated her to a stare that he hoped conveyed his meaning.

Anna looked back evenly. "What exactly did de Rainault make you do?"

In spite of his considerations mere seconds ago, Guy very nearly did pounce on her. "I AM NOT GOING TO TALK ABOUT IT!" he roared.

In the silence that followed, Anna had the good sense to avert her eyes.

"Guy, temper," she said with gentle reprimand. "Do your breathing, count to ten."

"Go to hell with your silly counting games!"

"We'll finish for today." Anna got up. She pulled a device from her pocket and switched it on. "Justin? Are you free right now? Guy could do with some exercise. Though we may need a bigger sandbag."

oOoOo

He screamed and screamed. The door burst open and a stranger rushed in.

"What's the matter?"

Guy jumped off the bed. "Who are you?"

"One of the night porters. I heard you scream. Are you all right?"

"Where is Anna? I want Anna!"

"There is no Anna here."

"Liar!" He pushed the man against the wall. "Fetch Anna now, you bumbling idiot!"

"Day staff are away," gurgled the man through Guy's stranglehold.

Guy slammed the man against the wall in time with his words. "I … WANT ... ANNA … NOW!"

Then came the familiar hiss and all went black.

oOoOo

"How dare you attack a member of staff? Michael is furious. He's ready to lock you up and throw away the key. I don't blame him. And how does this make me look, what will people think of my work if you pull such crap? Don't you ever use your brain?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," muttered Guy.

"Be glad I put in a good word for you. I said anyone would freak out if they were alone in the dark after a nightmare and a stranger came into their room. Though Michael pointed out quite rightly that they might freak out without trying to break the person's back."

"I panicked."

" _You_ panicked? What about us? We all have to carry panic buttons now. If the second night porter hadn't come back from the toilet when he did, the man could be dead! And all he did was to see if you were okay. What's wrong with you? Haven't you killed enough people?"

"Anna, please, I'm sorry. It was the dream –"

"No, it was you! Other people have nightmares, too, and they don't savage their fellow men."

"I didn't _savage_ him."

"You did so! I've seen the bruises. How can we trust you after an incident like this?"

"I'm sorry!" he shouted. "What else do you want me to say?"

Anna went over to the window and stared out for a while. "Okay," she said eventually. "Let's move on. Tell me about the dream."

"I was in the forest. And it was the trees again. They hunted me. I ran. They had … teeth … and tendrils, claws. They grabbed me. I fell. I thought they would devour me. Something touched me, I don't know what. Then I woke up."

"Right." Anna sat down and rubbed her chin. "You relived the experience you had that one year at the time of the Blessing. This interests me. Even you with all your anger issues, I mean, even for you, you got uncommonly incensed by a simple village festival. What's the deal? Why so irate about a few ribbons and flowers attached to a tree?"

"The heathens worshipped the false god Herne. They _worshipped_ the trees _._ "

"Hm. Maybe, but still. A tree to me seems a particularly inoffensive thing. Good symbol, you know, life-giving, connecting earth and heaven and so on. So why did you get so worked up about it?"

"Because I worship the true God."

"Oh, hogwash. You worshipped power and money and violence. You worshipped Fenris all along. When Grendel recruited you, you were simply coming home."

"I did not! I worship no false idols!"

"You worship death."

"What makes you say that?"

"Why else would you massacre the Jews of Nottingham?"

"That was God's will."

He knew that was a foolish answer; nevertheless he wasn't prepared for what happened next.

"How can you be so _stupid_!" screamed Anna. "Don't be so bloody, _bloody_ stupid!" She jumped up from her seat and began to pace the room, fists clenched. Guy's eyes followed her in bafflement and dismay. Eventually, she sat down again.

"I'm sorry," she said after a deep breath. "I shouldn't have shouted at you. But you know exactly how the pogrom came about, and _God's will_ had absolutely nothing to do with it. You're using that as an excuse for something you know you did wrong, probably the worst thing you ever did. You're regressing, you're in denial, can't face to look your own actions in the eye. And I think you are so terrified of the trees because at some level you believe that Herne's curse is real. Possibly even that you deserve it."

"I am no heathen!"

Anna shook her head. "The term is _pagan_. It's just another religion, one among others. And so, you consider yourself a Christian?"

"Of course."

"Hm. Tell me, what exactly is it that you believe?"

"We believe in one God, the Father Almighty, the maker of heaven and earth, of things visible and invisible. And in one Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God, the begotten of God the Father –"

"No, no, no. I know the Nicene Creed. Tell me in your own words."

He looked taken aback, but obediently counted up on his fingers: "Well, that God created the world and everything in it. That he set Man to rule over everything, the king on top followed by the nobles. That the true believers in the church will go to heaven and all others to hell." He reflected whether he's forgotten anything. "And the sacraments and the Ten Commandments."

"Hm. Any idea why this religion you've just described would be called Christianity?"

Ah, he had forgotten something after all.

"Because Christ is the sacrificial lamb that takes away the world's sins."

"Everybody's sins?"

"If they are absolved by a priest after confession." Now he felt confident he had covered everything.

Anna said nothing. She tapped her pen against her notebook.

"Do you know anything at all about the man Jesus of Nazareth?" she asked at last.

"Yes, of course. He was born in Bethlehem to the Virgin Mary, he died on the cross and was buried and –"

"Frankly, I'm more interested in the bit between those two events you so dutifully listed. Since that bit covers the entirety of his life, you know. And no, don't start reciting any more doctrine. Look, to be a Christian means to be a follower of Jesus. It means to be guided and inspired by his words and example. It is about compassion, about caring and sharing, about abundant love. And being humble, forgiving, peace-loving, just. What you call Christianity is nothing but an institutionalised justification for your privilege. It's a mockery of everything Jesus taught. King on top followed by the nobles, my backside! You're no more Christian than a slice of cheese."

"But the Abbot Hugo said –"

"Pah! Sadducees and Pharisees. Jesus would throw the Abbot Hugo out of the abbey just like he threw the traders out of the temple."

"He is an ordained priest of the church!"

"So what? You think the rites of the church are magical? Is that what you believe, confession and baptism and all that works like a magic spell and grants you a place in heaven no matter what you do? Are you really that naïve?"

"It … I … isn't that what everyone believes?"

"Good grief, I should hope not! Guy, think, think! Surely you must have read _some_ of the Bible?"

Guy shrugged. Of course he knew some of the Bible, but he had never felt it necessary to think about it. It had simply been the guarantee that everything was as it should be. And now apparently, it was something else entirely. Stunned, he listened to Anna talking, about the Golden Rule, and the new commandment, about the Kingdom of God which was not of this world but which was, wherever two or three are gathered, right among them. Anna called it an egalitarian Utopia, whatever that was. She talked about the beatitudes, about the peacemakers who shall be called the children of God, about mercy being shown to the merciful. She talked about the love that could not be killed.

When she was finally finished, he hardly knew what to say.

"Will I go to hell?" he asked quietly.

Anna's voice softened. "Honey, I think you have been in hell most of your life. I'm trying to get you out. I thought you knew that."

Without warning, he burst into tears. The sight of a grown man sobbing was supremely disturbing to Anna. That it was this particular man didn't make things any better. She sneaked into the control room, making sure nobody was there, and switched off the recording. Then she returned to Guy and slung her arm around him. He burrowed into her shoulder and she stroked his hair.

"What am I, Anna?"

"A forlorn child. Lonely. Abandoned. In need of mothering." She pulled him closer. Any thought of being professional was well and truly down the drain. "Honey, remember how Loxley once asked you what your life was worth and you said, _nothing_? On the surface you probably just meant that de Rainault wouldn't be willing to pay a ransom for you, but I think it goes deeper, doesn't it? It was how you felt about yourself. Now think about it: if you keep making the wrong choices, you condemn yourself to a life of misery. So, what's your life worth, Guy? What's it worth to you, for your own sake? Is it worth making an effort? Do you choose to continue on your path, which is destructive and self-defeating, or will you turn yourself around and find a life worth living?"

A new wave of sobs shook him and she rocked him like a toddler.

"Help me, Anna," he whispered. "Save me."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"A counsellor arguing with a client about theology? Anna, you need to get your act together."

Anna silently congratulated herself that the recording had been 'accidentally' deleted and Michael only had her sanitised transcript to go by.

"It is not your role to convert him to your personal religious views."

"I know." Anna tried to look suitably chastened. "But, Michael, I don't see how he can move forward while he has such ridiculous notions. He was using what he considers his religion as an excuse for the pogrom. Don't you see what this attitude is? Where it leads? He said he was only following orders; does that sound in any way familiar to you?"

Michael exhaled through his teeth and put his hand on hers.

"Listen, Anna, I know you are a good person and you want the best. And I have every faith in your ability, your general ability, to manage this case. But don't allow yourself to get carried away like this. You're too emotionally involved. Are you sure you wouldn't be better off on the Bingley case?"

"No, no. Leanne's got off to such a good start with Caroline; it wouldn't be fair on either of them."

"And that's, of course, your main objection."

"It wouldn't be fair on Guy either! He trusts me."

"He could learn to trust Leanne."

"Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn't. Why take the risk?"

Michael shook his head and withdrew his hand, which had been resting on hers way too long. "What about the risks you're taking? If he can get under your skin like that, you ought to consider your own wellbeing."

"I'm fine. Don't worry about me."

"Well, I do worry. Because, you know, I'm still the boss around here and if anything goes pear-shaped, it'll be on my head."

"I'll proceed with due consideration for your head." She took his hand and dragged him up from his chair. "Come, let's see how he's getting on in the kitchen."

"What the hell is he doing in the kitchen?"

"You'll see. A new interest I have encouraged him to develop."

When they opened the kitchen door, they were hit by a wave of heat. It smelled wonderful, though, of cinnamon and vanilla and cloves. Guy wore a green and blue striped apron and was busy with a cookie cutter. His brow was creased in concentration. Trays of finished biscuits sat on the wire racks to cool. Fran, with sleeves rolled up almost to her armpits, was kneading an enormous batch of dough.

Michael glanced at the rolling pin, the metal baking trays, the wooden spoons and various other implements, and cast an alarmed look in Anna's direction. She made an appeasing gesture and pointed with her chin at Guy, who did seem serene and contented and proudly offered them a sample of his first batch of chocolate brownies.

"He's such a great help, this young man is," said Fran. "Can cream butter like a pro." Guy grinned. "And you should see the mince pies he made earlier. A natural baker, this lad. We'll all put on a stone at Christmas if he continues like this."

"Fran is going to show me how to make a coffee walnut cake," added Guy.

Anna looked at Michael as if to say, _See?_ Michael shrugged. "Well," he said with an uneasy smile, "you've got another week till the Christmas party, so all power to you two master bakers."

He pulled Anna out beside him.

"Are you crazy?" he hissed. "What is he clobbers Fran over the head with a rolling pin?"

"He won't. He loves Fran! She's like a mother to him. Didn't you see how happy he was, like a little boy helping his mum in the kitchen?"

"Yes, for now. Tomorrow, Anna, and this is unnegotiable, you will fob him off with some excuse why he can't continue in the kitchen. I am not taking responsibility, do you hear? I've not forgotten the little nighttime incident."

"But that was different! This is –"

"I am not willing to find out if and how this is different. He can finish his cookies today, because he's clearly in a peaceful mood, but that's it. End of debate."

oOoOo

In the Chrysalis room, Kate Howard emerged from the extraction chamber. The engineering crew cheered.

"0.76 seconds," said the chief operator. "That's pretty smooth."

Kate beamed. "I put him right in the middle of the room. Does he show up?"

They crowded around the screen while they replayed the recording. For 0.76 seconds, Kate appeared in in the cartoon room and placed a cartoon puppy on the cartoon rug. Then Kate was gone and only the puppy remained, wistfully scratching his ear.

"Oh, well done, well done!"

"Hardly noticeable. And we can whittle the time down more."

"How was it, Kate? Didn't you feel tempted to stay?"

"A bit too two-dimensional." They laughed.

Alastair Fotheringham, with a wide smile on his slick face, popped a bottle of Champaign and began to fill the glasses. "Congratulations, everyone. This is a fantastic breakthrough. The possibility this success opens up for us are truly amazing. We'll be able to pull characters and return them to their loved ones in improved condition, characters we'd hitherto not considered because they had too many ties in their home world…"

He continued for a while in the same vein, stating with bombastic mien things that everyone knew already. Meanwhile Kate, exhausted from moving between worlds twice in the space of a second, quietly passed out on a chair.

oOoOo

The 22nd was the day of the Christmas party, after which most of the staff would take a holiday until the New Year. Guy would be left in the facility with just a few security officers, a caterer, a janitor and a couple of cleaners.

"Don't worry about it," Anna had said when she explained these arrangements. "You can go to the pool and to the gym as much as you like, and someone will be available to take you out for walks, you and … well, you'll see. Anyway, if anything serious crops up, if you should feel really bad, they'll call us and either Michael or I will come in and see you."

"Why Michael? Why not Justin?"

"Justin isn't trained. But that's all just in case anyway, it won't come to that, you'll be absolutely fine."

Guy had not been so convinced. Fair enough, his physical needs would be attended to, but by people he hardly knew. It would be almost like being in Nottingham Castle again, among people who didn't care about him. The prospect of spending over a week without Anna and Justin and Fran, without even Michael or Nicky, cast a gloom over him that was only slightly alleviated by the festive cheer the staff were at pains to spread throughout Chrysalis Beta. Special scents, special music, special decorations filled the building from wall to wall. The world twinkled and glittered.

And now it was the afternoon of the 22nd and Anna stood in the doorway in a green velvet dress that didn't reach her knees, with black tights underneath and shoes that seemed too precarious to walk on. Something was different about her face, too. She had painted around her eyes and on her lips, the way Nicky did. It was attractive enough, but mostly he found it disturbing, because he felt her real face was hidden. Oblivious to his discomfort, she beamed at him.

"Merry Christmas." She stepped forward and hugged him. "I have a present for you. It's out in the hall. Michael has okayed it, but you don't have to accept it unless you want to. Come."

She led him through the main office and into a large room he'd not seen before. A few people milled about or stood together in talk. Like everywhere else in the facility, the room was bedecked in glittering things. A fir tree, likewise smothered in sparkly ornaments, stood in the corner. Guy was unsurprised by this, because Justin had explained about Christmas trees and the other crazy customs of modern day Christmas.

"We're here," said Anna to the back of a man, who promptly turned round. It was Michael. He held a black puppy in his arms.

"Here's my present," said Anna as she took the dog off Michael and placed him in Guy's arms. "His name is Rupert."

Guy looked at the dog, then at Michael, then at Anna, then at the dog again. "What is he supposed to be – a scent hound, a pointer, or what?"

"He's supposed to be a _friend_ , Guy. Care for him and he will love you. It's almost guaranteed."

"You are offering me the love of a dog?"

"I am offering you a chance to love. I thought you might start with something easy."

"I have supported this idea," said Michael. "I think it will be beneficial for you to have a pet."

The little dog wriggled out of Guy's arms and waddled away to hide under a chair. Anna and Michael followed and tried to coax him back out, leaving Guy to stand by himself. The room began to fill with people. Along one wall, a table was set with a white paper cloth and more glittery stuff. Fran was busy arranging platters of food on this table.

Guy looked about him, hoping to see Justin or Nicky. Instead his eyes fell on a tall young woman who stood on her own near the window. She seemed ill at ease and he felt sure that, like he, she came from _elsewhen_. He moved towards her and tried to look friendly.

"My name is Guy of Gisburne. And who would you be?"

The woman cast an icy glance at him. "We haven't been introduced!" she said and averted her head.

There was laughter and whooping at the other end of the room.

"Come on, it's Christmas, give her a kiss!" someone cried.

To general cheering, Michael kissed Anna on the cheek. She ruffled his hair, then straightened his tie.

"Let's not get carried away, professor," she said.

Guy felt anger flaring up. He remembered what Anna had taught him and checked for the feeling behind the anger. Stinging, burning, nauseating – it was jealousy. He stared at the man who could so casually kiss Anna, at his easy smile, his sparkling eyes – and realised whom he had reminded him of all along. Impossible! Insufferable! The bane of his life, the –

An arm sneaked round his shoulders. It was Fran's. "Will you help me with the mince pies, son?"

Grateful for the distractions, he helped Fran to bring in the platters of hot mince pies from the kitchen and put them on the buffet table among the other fruits of their baking labours. Fran rang a little silvery bell and announced that the food was ready. Kate Howard and Leanne Mitchell, wearing sparkly reindeer antlers, immediately came over and began to fill their plates whilst declaring in song that they wished it could be Christmas every day. Seconds later a long queue formed. The room was so crowded by now that Guy couldn't even see Anna anymore. Someone had pushed a mug of punch into his hand. He managed to find a chair and slouched down. Something touched his leg. It was the little dog. He picked him up and held him on his lap.

"Poor Rupert, you must be terrified." The puppy licked his hand. "Come, we'll go and find somewhere quiet." Cradling the dog in his arms, he left the party and returned to his room.

oOoOo

The New Year arrived with frost and high winds. From his window, Guy watched the bare limbs of the trees being shaken by violent gusts. He hoped the inclement weather would not mean that his walk would be cancelled. Usually a security guard took him and Rupert out into the grounds at around elven o'clock. The little dog seemed to sense that the time was drawing near, because he waddled to the door every few minutes with an expectant expression on his face.

"Come here, Rupert!" Guy squatted and tapped his knees. "Come!"

Obediently, Rupert came over to Guy and licked his hands. Guy scratched him behind the ears. "Good dog! Good Rupert!"

Anna had been right, it was easy to love Rupert, who was so utterly enthusiastic about loving him back. Over the course of the last ten days, Guy had discovered that he was capable of tenderness. He'd spent hours playing with the dog, rubbing his belly, teaching him to come and to sit. At night, Rupert liked to sleep draped over Guy's feet and Guy let him. He moved carefully in his bed so as not to disturb the dog. It was a way to make up for the times he had hit or kicked the dogs at Nottingham Castle.

Since Anna had turned out to be right, not only on this but on various other occasions, she was probably right about the resolutions as well. _I've worked you really hard,_ she had said. _Give yourself a break over Christmas. Then when New Year comes, make some resolutions about how you're going to turn your life around. Make them ambitious, but keep them realistic, achievable. And not too many, three or four will do. Then start as you mean to continue._

She had refused to give him any clues as to what the resolutions should be. _They need to be entirely your own._

Anna would be back in a few days and he didn't want to disappoint her. Presumably, _Start as you mean to continue_ meant in the first instance to do the task she had given him. It was daunting, though.

It kept him occupied all day. While he roamed the grounds with Rupert and the security guard, he thought about it, and later in the bath, and he couldn't concentrate on reading because the sun was setting and he still had no resolutions and he feared that if he didn't make them today the whole thing would simply flounder. Perhaps the first resolution should be that he would read more. But no, somehow he didn't think that was the kind of thing Anna had meant.

After much mental struggle, he finally wrote on a piece of paper in painstaking letters:

 _Guy of Gisburne - Resolutions for a Better Life_

 _I want to be honest with myself._

 _I want to learn how to be kind._

 _I want to make amends._

 _God help me._

With regard to the first resolution, he knew he could count on Anna to push him hard. Rupert was helping with the second one, having awakened feelings of affection in Guy. And furthermore, Guy was thinking, Fran would be a good person to try and emulate. She was like everyone's mother. It had given him genuine pleasure that people had been so delighted with his Christmas baking. Cookies were a very tangible form of kindness.

The last one was different and perhaps even impossible. Even if he asked to be sent back to Nottingham – but he really, really didn't want to – there was not much he could do. He couldn't bring the Jews of Nottingham back to life, or Matthew the miller or Ralph of Huntingdon. People he had killed in battle he didn't count, but those had been outright murders and if he couldn't make amends, he would always be just a murderer. It was not a realistic, achievable goal, but he felt he couldn't leave it out.

When Anna finally returned, she agreed that they were excellent resolutions.

"You did well," she said and patted Rupert as if the dog had been the hero of so much soul searching. "If you stick to these, they will absolutely turn your life around."

"But how can I make amends? The dead are dead and out of my reach."

"You could think of it as a debt you owe to all humankind. When you learn to be kind, every act of kindness will be paying back that debt in some little way."

As he looked at her, he thought that his face felt strange. He realised it was because he was smiling. "You are so clever, Anna."

She smiled back. "And here you are, making compliments! You're a changed man already!"

"Not quite yet."

"No," she agreed, "but you have started to move in the right direction. I'm proud of you. Keep it up."

oOoOo

During the pale, dark winter days, Guy's life settled into a fertile routine. He allowed Anna to probe his mind and faithfully stuck to his resolution to be honest. He lavished fondness on Rupert and basked in the love and loyalty of the dog. Justin taught him to ride a bicycle, to make a phone call, to use a computer, to make sense of the news. The world he saw on TV began to seem less outrageous. Slowly but persistently, he progressed with reading and had almost finished _The Canterbury Tales._ From time to time he played cards with the woman Caroline, who had decided to speak to him after Michael had formally introduced them. The sessions with Nicky became more challenging. While she continued her playful approach, the tasks she set him were increasingly demanding. She asked him to paint his nightmares, his childhood self, his hopes for his future. When she said he should paint the animal that lived in his heart, he knew what he wanted the picture to be, but not how to achieve his vision: a white stallion, strong and fierce but fettered and bleeding from many wounds. Nicky had to help him so much that in the end it was more her painting than his, and even as they put on the finishing touches, he thought that it wasn't quite true anymore. He told Nicky and she grinned. "So, should we add Anna with a pair of bolt cutters and Fran with a box of sticking plasters?" Guy chuckled. "That would ruin the picture," he replied, "but it pretty much sums it up."

It was the last week in February and after a series of exhausting sessions regarding his mother and step-father, Anna finally brought up the issue of his unknown real father.

"I'm sure you have thought about him a lot over the years. Tell me."

"What's there to tell?" Guy frowned and crossed his arms. "He could be anybody, a serf, an outlaw. There's no telling how low my mother sank."

"Oh, Guy," said Anna with a sigh. "Is that really what bothers you most about the whole thing?"

"Yes."

"More than the rejection from your stepfather?"

He paused. "Well, maybe not. But is it important, don't you see?"

"It was, I suppose, back where you came from. Would it comfort you to know that your real father is a nobleman?"

"Of course."

"Well, he is."

Guy snorted. "Do you think I'm that gullible?"

"No, seriously, I know who he is."

"You mean my mother _told_ you?"

"I've never spoken to your mother. You're the only one we pulled. But I know that she told someone else."

"Who? Who did she tell? And who is it?" He grabbed Anna's arm and shook her. Anna gave him an icy look.

"Let go of me, Guy. Thanks. Listen, I am perfectly happy to tell you, if that's what you want. But please try to understand that in our world, it really doesn't matter."

"It still matters to me."

"Okay then. Your father is the Earl of Huntingdon. And your mother was married to him, though it turned out not to be a valid marriage, because your stepfather was only presumed dead and then they found out the presumption had been wrong. Perhaps you will feel better about her knowing that she didn't sink to any significant depth. It was all very unfortunate, really."

Guy buried his face in his hands, then pulled them slowly down and rested his chin on his fingertips.

"The Earl of Huntingdon. I know him. I was at his castle when Owen of Clun…" He groaned. "If he is my father that means that Robert…"

"Yes, I know. Kind of corny, isn't it? I think the script writer deserves a kick in the shin." She noticed his hurt look. "Sorry. It's your real life, I know. Anyway, does knowing this make you feel better, or worse?"

"Oh, better, definitely better. I am of noble descent after all."

"Yes, honey, but that's not really important."

"How can descent not be important?"

"Because we all have the same ancestors anyway. Go back in time far enough, and we're all descended from some kind of ape, and before that from some kind of rat or squirrel." Guy stared at her as if she were insane. She laughed. "Okay, maybe this is not the best moment to introduce you to the concept of evolution. If you want to be unscientific, you could say we're all descended from Adam and Eve. But what of it? Would you say I am a Norman? Because with a name like Sinclair, I must have a Norman forefather somewhere in my family tree, eight-hundred, nine-hundred years ago. How many non-Normans have been my foremothers, though, over the centuries? It hardly counts, does it? What else might I not be as well, Saxon, Celt, Spanish, Russian, Jew or Turk? We're not an isolated mountain valley in the Andes or something like that. Nobody in Europe is pure-blooded. The whole notion is a complete fantasy."

"You think it's worth nothing?"

"It'd better be. Because let me remind you that your precious Norman ancestors are themselves descended from pirates. Is that something to be proud of? I'd a million times rather be judged on my own merit than on whatever my ancestors have got up to. Anyway, in this day and age, we've done away with this whole nonsense of who your father was. There may still be a few pockets of the dynastically inclined, but most people don't give a toss about your ancestry. We're all Jock Tamson's bairns; that means, we're all just people."

"Am I a nobody then?"

"No, not at all. Look, the big idea is not to push everyone down but to lift everyone up. Nobody will bow to you here. But also, you bow to nobody. Isn't that better?"

"Is there no king then in England?"

"Not anymore. We had a queen until not that long ago, but after she died the whole monarchy thing kind of fell apart."

"So who rules the country?"

"Ha! I'd like to say, democratically elected representatives, but unfortunately it's not as straightforward as that. Old privileges die hard. But that's beside the point. The majority of people believe in equality. They won't think you are anything special on account of who your father was."

"You are telling me I have no rights?"

"On the contrary, you have lots of rights. But they are not special ones, they are the same as everybody's. A right to life, liberty, privacy, freedom of expression, a right to be treated fairly. You are a human being, flawed like we all are, but full of potential. You have a right to be respected, just like everyone else. You deserve compassion. And you are worthy of love."

At this, he sat up. "You think so?"

"Sure."

"More than a dog's love?" He hugged Rupert. "Not that I don't appreciate yours, Rupert."

"I said _worthy of,_ " said Anna. "I can't promise it will actually happen. It's very much a matter of chance. But there are a lot of people in the world and I don't see why you shouldn't find someone."

"Fran said every pot has a lid. Is that what she meant?"

"Yup."

Guy buried his face in Rupert's fur. The way Anna had talked, she clearly didn't think of herself as being the someone. She probably was the lid to Michael's pot. It was just too bad.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"Caroline is not happy here." Leanne's expression was even more earnest than usually. "She misses her family, especially her sister. I seriously think we'll have to send her back."

"That's a shame," said Justin. "I thought she and Guy would make a great couple."

"What?" snapped Anna.

"Well, you know. He's a nobleman, so that should satisfy her. And she could play the piano to him all day long, you know how he laps up music."

"He's got an MP3 player," was Anna's only reply.

"Can we stay on topic, please?" said Michael. "Leanne, you were saying?"

"We made a mistake taking Elizabeth Bennet's perception of Caroline at face value. That was a skewed perspective, because there was always some kind of rivalry between them, right from the start." Leanne pushed up her glasses with her ring finger. "While we were correct in assuming that Caroline would find 21st century social conventions liberating compared to those of her own time, we were wrong to think that all her relationships were shallow and easily severed. She is genuinely very fond of her sister and feels very protective of her brother. You have to remember that the three of them lost their parents at a relatively young age and have very much relied on mutual support. Caroline tells me she is very worried about Louisa, I mean, obviously the woman is not happy in her marriage and Caroline is her confidante."

"Maybe we should pull Louisa, too, then?" suggested Justin.

"And then they'll both pine for the brother, and we'll pull him, and then Jane, and before we know it we have the whole Bennet clan here." Michael shook his head. "No, no, no, I think Leanne is right. We shouldn't keep the woman here if that's how she feels. Of course the best thing will be to ask her directly. If she wants, how soon can she go back, Kate?"

"Oh, any time really. We can have everything ready for tomorrow."

"Great, I'll leave it to you and Leanne to sort out. And, Anna, in all fairness we should ask Guy the same question."

"He won't want to leave."

"Probably not, but ask him anyway, just to be sure."

"Okay." Anna scribbled on her notepad as if this was some minor tasks she might otherwise forget. "Do you want me to ask him straight away?"

"There's no particular rush, but don't wait forever."

"Decisive leadership, Professor-Watford-style," said Kate with a giggle. "Come on, Michael, give her a deadline. Next Wednesday at thirteen-hundred hours, Dr Sinclair!"

"Just do it soon," said Michael quietly with a kindly nod at Anna.

But _soon_ was a stretchable term and by Thursday morning Anna still hadn't broached the subject. It wasn't so much that she doubted his resolve to live in the 21st century – she was pretty sure of that – but that she would have rather avoided admitting that she had lied to him on their first meeting. Guy was making such an effort these days to be scrupulously honest, and she hoped he would never find out that she had been less than truthful with him on numerous occasions. Of course it was entirely possible to deal with the question without bringing up her initial fib, but she felt it was time to come clear. Only not just yet.

oOoOo

Eventually Guy himself created an opening which Anna couldn't ignore. They were sitting in the hall drinking coffee, and he glanced at the piano that stood in one corner.

"I haven't seen Caroline for days," he said. "Is she ill?"

"No." Anna squirmed and avoided his eyes.

"So what's the matter? Where is she?"

"She's gone home."

"Wasn't she cooperating?"

"It's not that. It was her own choice." She reached across the table and took both his hands. "Listen. I have a confession to make. You obviously remember how on our first meeting I told you that we'd send you straight back unless you cooperated. But I'm afraid that was a lie. The Chrysalis machine only went one way at that time. But the engineers have been working on the reversal and it seems that they have finally succeeded. Caroline went back last week. Because she wanted to. We'll be able to send you back too, once you're ready. What do you think?"

Guy shook his head. "I don't want to go back to the sheriff." _And I don't want to be parted from you. I'd rather die._ He flinched. That thought had ambushed him and nearly made it out of his mouth. Where had it come from? Was it really his own? Carefully, knowing that he dealt with a bruised creature poised for flight, he tested his heart. And right enough, there it was: the knowledge, sharp and steely, that of all the awful things he'd ever known, being parted from Anna would be the most unbearable. It wasn't lust. He had lusted after many women, for example after Nicky when they were rolling in the autumn leaves and after Caroline when she played music so beautifully; he had lusted after Anna as well, almost every day. But this, this was something else entirely. In recent weeks he had begun to believe that he was capable of good and tender feelings and he feared that without Anna, that prospect would dissolve into mist. He needed her for his salvation.

"It wouldn't need to be the sheriff," said Anna.

"What?" Guy, stirred by his own thoughts, had lost track of the conversation.

"I mean, you wouldn't have to go back to the sheriff, just to your home world in general. You could revisit your old plan of taking service with, who was it again, the Earl of Chester? Or join the outlaws after all and take your revenge on the sheriff, not that I'm advocating violence of any kind…"

"Do you want me to go back?"

"I, personally? I'm not supposed to influence you, just to outline the options for you. If you want to stay in the 21st century, that's fine by me, we used to assume that would happen anyway. You need to be aware, though, that you can't stay at Chrysalis forever."

He wrung his hands behind his back and glanced at the ceiling. "I know. How much longer do I have?"

"Michael initially planned a six month project, but we've given you a four week extension and are looking to discharge you at the end of May."

"As soon as that? Justin always said I have plenty of time."

"Justin's ideas of what plenty of time means are quite flexible. Trust me, I once had to get on a train with him. He's probably keeping it vague because he's not got things sorted for you yet."

"Like what?"

"A flat, a job, a forged passport …"

A slight feeling of nausea crept into his stomach, because all this sounded way too real. "What do you mean?"

"Gosh, it's really Justin's job to explain all this, but look, we need to set you up with a regular life. Somewhere to stay and somewhere to work, but most importantly, you'll need an identity. In this day and age, people cannot just exist. They need paperwork. And you haven't got any. No passport, no birth certificate, no national insurance number, nothing. You can't function like that. So we need to fabricate something for you. It's a bit of a shady business, but unfortunately our legal team hasn't been as effective as we'd hoped."

"You mean we are committing a crime?"

"Not as such, well, kind of, but really –" She was glad for the diversion that arrived this moment in the shape of Michael with a man and woman in tow. Anna waved them over.

"Hello," said Michael with his amiable smile and turned to the couple. "You've met Anna yesterday, didn't you? Guy, let me introduce the Rochesters to you. Jane, Edward, this is Sir Guy of Gisburne of Robin Hood infamy. Guy, Edward and Jane Rochester are famous characters from the 19th century. Edward is here for reconstructive surgery and to have a prosthetic hand fitted."

"Professor Watford has offered us integration into the 21st century," said Jane Rochester, a small and serious-looking woman. "It is tempting, seeing all the progress that has been made, but we have decided to go back. We have too many ties we don't want to sever."

"But before we go, we will make extensive use of the library," added her husband and put his arm round her waist.

"Oh, yes," his wife chimed in. "Miss Howard says she can take us back to exactly the moment we left, regardless of how long we stay, so we'll make it a full month. After Edward's recovery, that is. There is so much to learn!"

"I doubt you'll learn very much in a month," said Guy, who felt irritated by the couple's smug enthusiasm. "Certainly not from the library. You'd better watch some TV."

"Some people are faster readers than you, honey," said Anna.

"I finished _Le Morte d'Arthur_!"

"A most fascinating book," said Mrs Rochester. "I remember reading it when I was at school. I was only eleven and it took me nearly a week to finish it, but it was wonderful. I have loved Arthurian legend ever since."

Guy cast her a look of pure annoyance.

"What other books do you enjoy, Mr Gisburne?" asked Rochester.

Anna rose from the table and grabbed the two empty coffee cups. "Sorry," she said, "we'd love to stay and chat, but Guy needs to take his dog for a walk." She beckoned to him and he followed her gratefully.

oOoOo

Rochester's surgery was a full success and he recovered with surprising speed. When she saw him walking around the building, proudly showing his new hand to all and sundry, Anna couldn't help feeling tremendous pride in Chrysalis Beta. Whatever the issues around legality, whatever her misgivings about Alastair Fotheringham's motivations, they were indeed doing good. Once you accepted the premise that fictional characters were real – and the experience at Chrysalis left no doubt about this – then the plight of these characters became something that _someone_ needed to address. That there was technology available to make this possible was really some kind of miracle.

She remembered how the Chrysalis machine had first been explained to her. The engineer had talked a lot about parallel realities and had rattled off formulas that were nothing but gibberish to her. There was no real need for her to understand how the machine pulled the characters, it was enough to know that it did so with safe efficiency. It had been tested on primitive cartoon characters, mere stick figures really, which Michael had designed himself and which had been discarded once the machine had proven a success.

At that time, Michael had already told her about their first assignment and she had begun to immerse herself in the world. She recalled her resentment about the choice of character for the project. Could they not have started with someone less vile?

During the weeks of preparation that followed, she had indulged in silly fantasies, the kind of teenage delusions that her friend Charlotte called fangirling. She had imagined how she would gain access to the Chrysalis machine by some unspecified subterfuge, how she would pull not the revolting Guy of Gisburne but _Loxley_ , how they would flee together and how he would somehow fall in love with her. She visualised over and over in umpteen variations their first kiss and all that would follow. It was an embarrassingly stupid fantasy that she would never admit to anyone, though it was hardly more embarrassing than the reality of her current feelings for the no longer vile and revolting Guy of Gisburne.

At least she was not the only adult who suffered from juvenile fantasies. Guy reported that he had caught himself having vindictive daydreams about the sheriff. Through some undefined twist, de Rainault would find himself in the modern world and he, Guy, would sneer at him. _What are you afraid of, man, it's only a vacuum cleaner,_ or _, How pathetic, you can't even bake cookies_ , or, _What do you mean, you don't know who Michael Jackson is?_ She was glad he told her this, not only because it meant she could feel less embarrassed about her own silly flights of fancy, but also because it gave her an opening to bring up the subject of the sheriff again. Guy hadn't had a strop in ages and surely he trusted her enough by now? She wondered how far the whole dalliance had really gone. She couldn't imagine that the sheriff would actually rape Guy; that seemed implausible given their respective sizes. However, de Rainault could have easily bullied Guy into submission. On the other hand, Guy was so sensitive where his honour was concerned, even things like attending to de Rainault in the bath might have caused him trepidations.

"Come now, Guy," she said, "what's the deal with you and de Rainault? What exactly went on between you?"

He didn't shout and he didn't rage. He just looked at her, anguished, and whispered, "Please, don't ask me this, Anna. Please, you distress me."

So how could she press him on the subject? It would be too cruel. She decided to return to the issue of the revenge fantasies. They were, as such things go, commendably mild, but they showed that Guy continued to be obsessed with de Rainault.

"Are you still very angry with him?"

"I think so, yes. You'll tell me that I shouldn't be?"

"Well, he has wronged you, seriously and over a long period of time. Your anger is entirely justified. However –"

"There always has to be a _however_!"

Anna paused and gave him a critical glance. "Well, yes," she said. "If there wasn't, then your situation would be rather desperate. And I'd like to think that it's not. So, he has done you great wrong, _however_ , there are a couple of points to consider. One is that he may be as broken as you were. We don't know what his hurts and sorrows are, but I dare say nobody gets as callous as that without some kind of reason. That wouldn't justify what he did to you, but it might change your perspective. The second thing is this: You will never see him again, unless you go back, and you tell me you don't want that. So there will be no opportunity to get your own back, to have it out with him, nothing of the kind. You cannot ever resolve things with him. Which means there is only one way you can free yourself of the harm he did you, and that is to forgive him."

"How could I forgive him!"

"I don't know." Anna massaged her chin between her fingertips. "It's not something you can force yourself to do, I suppose. Perhaps once you're better, once you find some happiness…"

His eyes roamed over the trees outside the window. "Some happiness. Do you think it is out there somewhere?"

Clenching her fists, Anna made herself reply, "Sure. You'll go out and find it."

oOoOo

The early days of April were uncommonly warm and splendid. Instead of sitting cooped up indoors, Anna and Guy combined their counselling sessions with strolls through the grounds, much to the delight of Rupert, who enjoyed having two humans to throw sticks for him.

"Here's an interesting thing I read about Arthurian legend the other day," said Anna as they watched Rupert chasing away towards the lake. "I wouldn't have noticed it myself, but it's true. Stories about the Knights of the Round Table that were written at your time, around 1200, usually had this thing in common; it's called bipartite composition because the knight has to make two journeys that mirror each other. He is sent on a quest by King Arthur and he sets out all keen and full of hopes that he'll gain honour and glory and the hand of some lovely maiden and suchlike. But he screws up. Through his own stupidity, or arrogance, or whatever his central flaw is, he insults people, breaks the chivalric code, fails at test of courage, whatever. He returns to the king's court in disgrace. He is really crushed. But the king gives him a second chance. He sends him out again, so that he can redeem himself. And this time round he has learned from his mistakes and does everything right and then goes home with all the success he had hoped for. You see what I'm getting at."

"Yes." Guy' voice dropped by nearly an octave. "Are you going to send me back to Nottingham after all, to redeem myself? You know I don't want to go."

"Relax. Why would we send you back; there's nothing for you there and you know we're preparing for your discharge. No, I thought you could redeem yourself here. There's plenty of issues out there that could do with a champion."

"And you think I'm up to it?"

"There's no way to find out but to try."

"Ha, I thought you would say something like that."

Rupert returned panting, with a massive stick which he dropped at their feet. Guy picked it up and flung it. With an enthusiastic bark, Rupert dashed after it.

"Let me ask you something for a change," said Guy. "Did you ever plan to use the Chrysalis machine for your own purposes? Did you think of pulling Loxley and keeping him for yourself?"

Anna suppressed a nervous laugh. "I ... um…" She turned to him. "How can you know this?"

He grinned. "I watch and learn. And now you know that I can read you the same way you read me."

"You!" She gave him a playful punch. "You're getting too smart for your own good."

She took the stick off the eager Rupert and flung it. It landed in the water. "Oh, no, wet dog alert!"

They giggled but stood well back as Rupert emerged from the lake and shook himself.

"Anna?"

"Yes?"

"Am I really ready to leave? Do you think I am better?"

"You are a lot better."

"Maybe I'm just fooling you. Maybe I am play acting, keeping all my wickedness to myself whilst pretending to be a changed man, just so that I can stay in the land of bananas, MP3-players and flushable toilets."

"No. You are a changed man. Do you want to know how I know?"

"How?"

"Well, there's your voice. When you first came, you were always barking at people. It was awful. But I like hearing your voice now, it sounds quite different. And then there's this." She reached up and drew her middle finger over the skin between his eyebrows. "There were two lines there, because you frowned all the time. They've almost disappeared. See? You can smile now!"

He did. Anna should have withdrawn her hand, but she left it lingering on his cheek and stroked him slightly with her thumb. By no stretch of the definition could this be called work, and she knew it fine well. She also suspected that Guy knew it, though he couldn't know on what thin ice they were. She really ought to speak to Michael and ask him to replace her with a different counsellor, even for the remaining weeks. That was her professional duty. And she didn't want to do it.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"First of all," said Justin, "You need to get used to a new name. You cannot walk around as Guy of Gisburne. People know that name. It's bad enough that you look like you do, even with a haircut and glasses. Maybe you should grow a beard. Anyway, you'll be Gavin Gibbs. I have your paperwork all sorted out, though I suggest that you don't try to use the passport for actually leaving the country; it might not withstand too much scrutiny."

He passed a small, thin booklet to Guy, who opened it with curiosity and stared at his own image inside. The document alleged that Gavin Gibbs was born in Cumbernauld on 17th of February 1993.

"Learn that date by heart till you know it in your sleep," said Justin. "People overlook all sorts of brain fades, but you need to know your name and date of birth or they'll start thinking there's something dodgy. And say you didn't actually grow up in Cumbernauld. Say your dad was in the military and you spent your childhood moving from army base to army base or something like that. Just don't say it when there's anyone round who has connections with the army. In fact, best speak as little as possible about your past. Pretend you don't like to be reminded of it. Most people will be too polite to press you."

Guy nodded meekly. The idea of all those people out there scared him. He'd been _outside_ for the first time the previous day, just a stroll down the main street with Justin and Anna and then a trip on the bus to the local swimming pool. To say it was an overwhelming experience was putting it mildly. The noise, the crowds, all that movement. He had suddenly realised just how sheltered his life at Chrysalis was.

"Now, do get used to carrying your phone at all times," Justin continued. "It's perfectly normal for people to be fiddling with their phones while they speak to others, so if you get stuck in a conversation about some detail or so, just quickly look it up on the internet. All right?"

"I don't like the internet. It's silly. Man was not meant to talk with everyone else in the world at the same time."

"Huh, yeah, right. Can you be honest, please, Gavin?"

Guy sighed. "It makes me nervous. It's too much, too much of everything. It's like a maze where I could get lost and never come out again."

"There is always the off switch, you know. Okay, on with our list. Got you a nice flat in Baker Street, bedroom, sitting room, lovely little kitchen. The bathroom's awfy small, sorry about that, but it does have a tub. It's fully furnished and Fran will take you shopping next week for all your household items and stuff. Make sure you get everything you need for baking."

"Can I get cookie cutters?"

"As many as you like. Okay, listen, I'll stay with you for the whole first week, and for the second if need be. To make sure you're settled in. After that, I'll see you once a week, and if you need me in between, you can call me. Now, as for a job. We should get you set up with a job as soon as possible. The Chrysalis Foundation will support you, both financially and with advice, for a period of six months. You can get an extension after that if you're still struggling, but I think we should make sure that it won't come to that, eh? I have a few options lined up for you, all hands-on stuff, no fancy technology, no literacy." He ran his finger down a list on his phone. "Baker, I thought you'd like that, though mind you, it's quite industrialised. Painter and decorator, or joiner, and if you don't mind getting your hands really dirty, there's an apprenticeship in this organic market garden place, the lady who runs it is very nice…"

As Justin droned on, Guy pondered for a moment on the idea that Sir Guy of Gisburne, a Norman knight, son of an earl no less, would sink to an artisan's life. There was no use, though, in airing such ideas to Justin, who would be quick to point out that Gavin Gibbs, with fake papers and no qualifications, wasn't in a position to be picky. And Anna, of course, would say that it didn't matter, that what really counted was whether he enjoyed what he was doing. Presumably she was right, if his past experience was anything to go by. So he tried to imagine himself in these various jobs, and then it occurred to him how peaceful it would be to work in a garden, under the open sky, in the shade under trees or in the summer sun.

"That garden one," he said, "tell me more about it."

oOoOo

They sat by the lake while Rupert ran up and down the lawn behind them. A duck with a whole brood of ducklings was weaving in and out of the reeds.

"You needn't be so worried, Guy," said Anna. "Justin has prepared you well, and he'll be there for you at the start. And you'll see Nicky for art lessons. You'll be fine. It's going to be a whole new life, shiny and unspoilt. Nobody who hates you, nobody who bears you ill will. You can be the person you want to be. It's all out there for you. Joy and beauty and achievement and friendship and love, it's all waiting to happen."

"Even love?"

"Honey, we've talked about this before. I know it's what you need most, but I can't guarantee that you'll find it. Love is not like respect, it cannot be given by an act of will. It grows where it wants, or not, as the case may be."

"What about you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Has it…" He cleared his throat. "…has it grown in you?"

Anna breathed in slowly. "You want to know if I love you?"

"Yes."

She turned away and stared across the lake towards the Fotheringham manor. "As a Christian loves a fellow human being, yes. As a woman loves a man, no."

Old embers of anger stirred in him, but he knew better than to let them catch fire. The real feeling was sadness and he would have to allow it. And then something else began to move, hesitantly, a mere flicker. It was hope.

"Do you mean, no, never? Or no, not now?"

At the sound of his voice, she turned back to him and squeezed his hand.

"Guy, I have a great regard for you but you have to understand that you are not my equal."

"You said we were all equals in the 21st century."

"We are, in a general sense. We all have the same human rights, the same worth as human beings. But, Guy, this is not about general things. On a personal level, there is too much disparity between us. I am whole and you are broken. It could never work. Between lovers, there needs to be … mutuality. It can't be a case of you clinging to me for support all the time."

Guy thought this speech was strangely at odds with the optimistic picture of his future she had drawn mere minutes ago. He could have pointed that out, but he let it pass.

"Should you heal," Anna continued, "should you become whole and independent and free from the past … who knows. So yes, I am not saying, no never. But then, once you are out there and look about you, you might prefer someone else."

"How can I prefer anyone to you?"

"You've hardly met anyone else."

"I've met enough women in my life to know I won't meet another one like you."

"Perhaps. But you might meet someone very different and find that's just what you want."

"I doubt it."

Anna chewed her lower lip. Then she sighed. "Guy, I'm sure you know the Parable of the Sower?"

"About the seeds that fall on the rocks or among the thistles?"

"Yes. Life is a lot like that, you know. Relationships with people, I mean. We meet lots of folk and we sow our seeds with them, so to speak, and some will thrive and grow into friendships and others won't."

"And you mean the relationship between us, whatever it is, will wither on the rocks?"

"Honey, I'm not saying we'll never meet again. And I'm not saying I don't care about you."

"So when I am out, I can still see you?"

"Not initially. That would be a mistake. You need to make your own way. You shouldn't depend on me, in fact, you are already depending on me way too much. It's a tie you need to loosen if you want to become fully yourself."

"So when _can_ I see you?"

"When the time is right. You'll know. Be patient."

oOoOo

"We need to have a word." Michael plunged into an armchair and put his pen to his clipboard. "It's on a serious matter. I am told that yesterday you made a pass at Dr Sinclair."

"What does that mean?"

"You indicated that you are romantically interested in her."

"She told you that?"

"She reported it, yes, as was her duty. Mr Gisburne, it is not uncommon that a client develops a romantic attachment to their counsellor. The therapeutic relationship is, after all, a very intimate one. It is perfectly normal and usually subsides once the client gets better. But it is another matter if the client actually expresses such feelings. It is our responsibility to ensure that the counselling relationship remains at all times strictly professional. I'm sure you understand."

Guy looked at the floor. "I will not mention it again."

"That is good, but it not quite sufficient," said Prof Watford. "Dr Sinclair cannot continue as your counsellor under these circumstances. Usually we would assign a new counsellor to you, but since your release is so imminent, we have decided simply to fast-track your move into the community. You will go next week. I will conduct your discharge protocol and Mr McDougal will ensure that everything is ready for you."

"And I will not see Dr Sinclair before I go?"

"Dr Sinclair has taken leave of absence for a fortnight."

"She wanted to go away?"

"I advised it."

Stunned, Guy made monosyllabic replies to Michael's further questions. As far as he was concerned, the worst had happened.

oOoOo

After a couple of hours of brooding, he left his room. He found Fran in the hall, wiping down tables.

"You all right, son? You look a bit peaky."

"I'm healthy." He sank down on a chair.

"Something bothering you?"

"Anna's gone."

"Oh, don't worry, she'll be back. Let her have her holiday. The professor says she's overworked. You've been giving her a world of trouble, eh?"

"She won't be back before I leave. They're sending me away next week, with Justin. I won't even get to say good-bye to her."

"Oh, son." Fran plonked herself beside him and put her arm round his shoulders. "It's a bummer for you, carrying that torch for the lassie, don't think I didn't notice. It sucks, it really does, but she's out of your league. You know, she with her PhD and all that. Look, there's plenty more fish in the sea, including ones that aren't forbidden fruit. The world's your oyster, handsome chap like you. Chin up, eh?"

Guy leaned his head against hers and sighed.

"Fran," he said, "you are a very good woman, but sometimes I don't understand a word you're saying."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Late August sunshine clung gently to the apple trees. The windfall had attracted some wasps that buzzed about the rotten fruit in erratic zigzags. Beyond the orchard, neat rows of vegetables basked in the warmth of the afternoon.

Guy started on the third row of runner beans. His back hurt as his hands automatically did their work. When he closed his eyes, he saw nothing but beans. It had been the same the previous day with cabbages. He straightened up and glanced towards the main building. There was a promising number of cars parked beside it. If this stream of customers continued, Moira might ask him to help out in the shop. That would be a welcome break for his aching back, but it would also mean being stuck indoors on a beautiful day like this.

He wiped his hands on his jeans. With his cropped hair and his glasses, in trainers and a soft, chequered shirt, it was hard to imagine that he'd once looked like someone stepped right out of the Bayeux Tapestry. Even his posture had changed from his medieval bearing; it was more casual, more relaxed. The way he squinted against the sun, though, was the same as ever.

It was four months since he had been released from Chrysalis Beta. Released, or exiled, depending on how you looked at it. At first he could only think of it as exile. However, by now his despair about being parted from Anna had subsided into a faint background gloom. His initial motivation for engaging with the outside world had been purely to prove himself to her, to bring closer the day when he could see her again. Little by little, though, the outside world had developed its own hold on him. Working in the market garden had turned out to be as peaceful as he had expected, albeit backbreaking in a way he could never have imagined. His knees were callused, his hands and arms full of scratches, his fingernails worn down to the quick.

He might have resented this peasant-like existence, but then another thing he couldn't have imagined was the pride he felt in seeing his crops grow. It was elating to do something that was so wholly, so flawlessly good. When he'd harvested his first lettuce, Moira had said, "That won't go to the shop. You take it home, make yourself a salad. Take some tomatoes and a cucumber, too." Guy had complied. Back at his flat, he had wanted badly for Anna to share this triumphant meal, but even without her it had been great.

Lots of things were great now. He relished having his own place where nobody ever bossed him about. Of course there was also nobody he could boss about, but his inclination to do so had dwindled anyway. Heeding Fran's advice, he tried hard not to be a slob. He loved the vacuum cleaner, the microwave, the washing machine; his obedient servants that had no stubborn will of their own. And he never tired of hot baths.

He relished also the money that slowly accumulated in his bank account. Justin had advised him to save as much as he could of his wages during the six months that the Chrysalis Foundation still paid him an allowance. While he had no great riches, it pleased him to think that he had earned his money with the work of his hands.

The football was great as well. He played twice a week at a small local club, not a competitive outfit in any way, just a group of blokes enjoying the sheer exhilaration of the game. A whole bunch of them went for a pint or two at the pub afterwards, and he felt almost like one of gang, because drinking was easy and nothing difficult was ever talked of. One of the men, Tommy, had become a friend after a fashion, occasionally dropping in at Guy's flat to watch TV with him or chat over a cup of coffee.

He got on with people. Not brilliantly, not with the same ease with which they mostly seemed to get on with each other, but he got on. Bringing in home baking was always a sure way to make himself popular. He smiled, he laughed at jokes, though he rarely managed to crack any jokes himself. He watched his temper and his manners and he watched what he said. As far as he could tell, nobody suspected that he was born eight hundred years before the date printed in his passport. Overall, he thought he could pass for what would be called a useful member of the community. Whether that was _enough_ was another question.

If anyone had asked him, though of course nobody did, he would have attested the utter superiority of the 21st over the 13th century. Sometimes when he heard people complain, about their work, about the council, the government, he felt like taking them aside and whispering into their ears: _Consider yourselves lucky. You're housed and fed and clothed like princes. You eat fruit that travelled to you from the other side of the Earth. You turn a tap and get hot water, you flick a switch and on comes the light. You go everywhere at lightning speed; you can read anything, listen to anything, watch anything, talk to anyone, anytime, anywhere. You have hospitals and fire stations, water treatment plants and sewage works, libraries, shopping centres, banks, swimming pools, public parks, funfairs, cinemas; you have insurance for every problem under the sun and more entertainment available than you have time to consume. And yet you complain._

"Not everyone lives like that," said Justin when Guy brought up the issue. "Even in this country, there are poor people, homeless people, the unemployed. And then there's other countries."

Guy shook his head. "Back … back _then_ , not even the king lived like I do now. And I'm just a gardener. I woke up this morning in a draught-free room, looked out of a massive window, took a hot shower, had an electric shave, brushed my teeth with minty toothpaste, put on soft and comfortable clothes, ate a pineapple yoghurt and toast with marmalade, drank coffee, listened to music on the radio and then put my dirty dishes into a machine that will wash them for me. And tomorrow I can put on different clothes, because I have also a machine that washes _them_ for me, and I can eat different food every day, not the eternal bread and cheese and apples. And if I have a headache, I take a little pill, and if I have a toothache, a nice lady fixes it for me without pain. The best the King of England could hope for in such cases was goat's cheese and a half-decent barber."

"Okay, but all these things come at a price. Every banana you eat has a carbon footprint. Medieval folk didn't have to worry about climate change and carcinogens and data protection and all that stuff. People are quite right to be concerned about these things. But anyway, it's good you like it here, since this is where you're going to stay."

Justin still came to see him once a month, and it was on these occasions that Guy had his only communications with Anna. However, the notes she sent him were short and impersonal. _Chuffed to hear you're doing well, keep it up,"_ read one, and another, _"_ _Remember that books have a deeper educational value than TV; don't listen to Justin."_ These were not the kind of missives to which he could have replied the way he wanted to. _I dreamt of you last night; you held my hand, and when I woke up, I was so cold._ And, over and over: _I miss you; when can I see you?_ He'd tried to get more news of Anna out of Nicky, but Nicky said she was no longer going up to Chrysalis now that he was coming to her classes at the community centre.

Ultimately, not everything was great. In the absence of Anna's relentless _Tell me_ , he had started to bottle things up again. Jealousy for example plagued him, and in a diffuse, unfocussed way that was hard to pinpoint. He begrudged nobody their wives, husbands and families, but he couldn't help feeling, every time these made an appearance in conversation or in the flesh, that he was still left out. He was essentially a lonely person, colleagues and neighbours and football buddies notwithstanding. Everyone seemed to have a special someone. He just had Rupert. And he didn't know whom he could tell about the sadness.

oOoOo

On the same day, in the same late summer sun, Michael Watford and Anna Sinclair sat on a bench in Oakenhead Park. Anna had a book lying beside her with her index finger for a book mark, while Michael's hand, resting on her shoulder, played absentmindedly with a strand of her hair. Immense shrubs of deep blue and purple hydrangeas sheltered them from the sights and noises of a nearby play area, though the occasional whoop or cry still reached them in their hideout.

"Michael?"

"Hm?"

"How is the legal team getting on?"

"Soso. Why?"

"Oh, nothing particular. I'd just like to have some sort of prospect of publishing my paper and maybe participating in the academic world, rather than hiding forever in our little shady enterprise."

"Be patient," he said as he pulled her towards him. "And let's not talk shop, eh? I thought we came here for the views. You should be raving about those picturesque trees." He planted small kisses on the crown of her head. As she leaned against him she noticed that, in deference to the mock-tropical weather, his two top shirt buttons were open and a considerable amount of chest hair clearly visible underneath.

"Way to look respectable, Professor Watford," she muttered with a grin. He chuckled. She slid her free hand into the opening of the shirt and let it rest on his shoulder. Michael responded by drawing his fingers along the nape of her neck. From the river came a sound of quacking ducks. Anna closed her eyes and tied to melt against Michael's body the way she felt she should.

 _No,_ she thought. _No._

oOoOo

Had Guy visited Chrysalis Beta that year in December, he would have found it much changed. The building where he had once been the first and only was much busier with extracted characters as well as new staff who had been taken on to support them. Uriah Heep could be seen slinking along the corridors. In the gym, Edmund Blackadder and Mr Collins quibbled over the correct use of the rowing machine. Saffron-Yolanda-Bridget roamed the facility in search of people to seduce. In a bout of Austenmania, Alastair had installed a whole floor full of neglected and frustrated minor characters.

The Rochesters were still around, postponing their return month after month. Last thing Anna had heard was that Jane Rochester had asked whether the Chrysalis Foundation would grant her funds for a degree in sociology. She seemed to have decided that it wouldn't matter how long they stayed, as long as they wouldn't be noticeably aged on their return. Anna had her doubts whether they would ever go back at all.

She had her doubts about various things these days, not the least about the validity of her job.

"Assertiveness training with Fanny Price," she scoffed, "it's hardly worth bothering, is it? She doesn't need it anymore, not once she's married. Just send her back, she bores me to tears. I want to get my teeth into something real. Remember our first project? That's where we really made a difference."

Michael shook his head in exasperation. "Good god, Anna, I thought you'd had enough of bad men, and here you are, still pining for Sir Guy of Gisburne?"

She flashed him an angry look. "Well, I am not pining for you. That's the real problem, isn't it?"

"Let's keep it professional, shall we?"

"Yes, let's," hissed Anna. "Who I pine for, or not, is none of your business."

"Point taken. Look, we've discharged the man completely, so you're free to pursue him, if that's what you want."

"Really? I don't even know where he is. He's moved house, he's no longer working at the market garden and the office say they can't tell me."

"They probably don't know themselves."

"Do you know?"

"No. We didn't track him after the six months were up. Justin hasn't seen him either. Try Facebook."

"Ha. He hates the internet."

"Is he still taking classes with Nicky?"

"No."

"Disappeared without a trace." Michael took his glasses off and began to clean them. "Well, in general I'd say no news is good news. We'd hear about it if he'd got himself into trouble. But you don't really want to wait for that to happen, I suppose."

"Thanks, Michael. As usually, you are extremely helpful."

"No need to be sarcastic."

"I'm sorry. It's all so awkward, still working with you…"

"I'm trying to make it less awkward. Maybe you could help."

"Oh, Michael, I know you're doing the best you can. I don't mean to be difficult. It's just that it's all gone pear-shaped." She felt the tears welling up. Without another word, Michael patted her on the shoulder and left the room.

oOoOo

Perhaps it had been a mistake to go out alone. He usually liked a pub. It was a treat to soak up the atmosphere, the susurrus of voices, the dark wood and old-fashioned pictures. Drinking a pint at the bar, finding someone to talk to for half an hour or so, seemed preferable to spending another evening with Rupert and the telly. But perhaps it had been a mistake.

There was live music on and the musician, a skinny guy in leather trousers, with long hair and beard, was getting under his skin. Guy wasn't sure whether the man was creating his gloomy mood or merely reflecting it back at him. He played one heart-wrenching song after another. As yet another mournful tune took shape, Guy snatched up the lyrics and he wondered. Could he tell heaven from hell? Hell, yes, he knew now that the life he had left behind in Nottingham had been a kind of hell. But it didn't follow that his current life was heaven. His current life was just … a life. He wondered whether heaven, like hell, could be a place on Earth. He also wondered whether hell as the Abbot used to talk of was real or not.

 _How he wished she were here!_ She could explain things.

"What's this song?" Guy asked the girl who stood next to him.

"Oh my god, don't you know Pink Floyd?" She eyed him with curiosity. But Guy had learned to cover up for this kind of faux pas. "Of course, just slipped my mind for a moment." He ordered another beer and drank it rather too quickly. The musician launched into the next melancholy song. Guy decided to try another bar.

It must have been several hours later. He vaguely remembered two other bars and a few pints of beer in each of them. What he didn't remember was how he had ended up on the ground wedged between a lamppost and a litter bin, with his back against somebody's cellar window. He felt like being sick, but by the looks of it, he'd already been sick. And now somebody was talking to him and he struggled to hear what they said. He looked up.

There was three of them, a bearded young man and two women, one elderly and one middle-aged. They wore identical navy blue jackets and caps with the words STREET PASTOR emblazoned on them. The middle-aged woman squatted down beside him.

"How are you doing, son? Have a drink of water, it'll make you feel better." She held out a small plastic bottle to him. When he made no reply, she unscrewed the top for him. "Here, have a drink. Small sips."

He reached for the bottle and sipped. It didn't seem to make any difference. He started to cry.

The older woman, with some groaning and adjusting of knees, came down to ground level as well. She put a hand on his shoulder. "What's the matter?" she asked kindly. "Fallen out with your friends?"

"I'm going to hell!" he wailed.

"Now, why would you think that?"

"I've killed people. Lots of people."

He saw the women exchange glances. The bearded young man began to speak into a walkie-talkie.

"What, here tonight?" asked the middle-aged woman with barely concealed alarm in her voice.

"No, years ago. Killed them … 'm going to hell."

"Were you in the armed forces?" asked the older woman.

"No. I was deputy … deputy to the Sheriff of Nottingham."

They exchanged glances again. "Oh, were you?"

"I'm a time traveller, you know. Used to be a … Norman knight. But I'm Gavin now. Gavin Gibbs. 17th of February 1993. Eight-hundred years. Travelled eight hundred years into the future. Can still go to hell, though. Killed them … with my sword."

The older woman nodded at the middle-aged one. "I wouldn't worry about it," she said. "You'll feel better tomorrow. Take another sip of water. How are you going to get home?"

"Don't want to go back."

"Well, you can't sit here on the street all night; it's too cold. Have you got money for a taxi?"

"Is hell real? She'd know. Anna. Need to … need to find Anna."

"Is Anna your friend? Can she take you home?"

"I don't know where she is! I went and looked, and she wasn't there!"

"Do you have her mobile number? Check your phone. Did you come out with her tonight?"

"No, I haven't seen her … seen her for ages."

"Is she a friend? Or a relative maybe?"

"I don't know what she is. I think … she's a witch. And I love her. And she's gone."

The women seemed to be at the end of their wits. They rose and had a whispered conversation with the bearded young man. Behind them, Guy could see the late-night revellers flocking towards the taxi rank. Suddenly, two men stopped and came towards him.

"Gavin, mate, whit ye doing? Are ye bothering the street angels?"

The women turned towards the newcomers. "Do you know him?"

"Aye, he's a mate of Tommy Campbell's. He's usually out with Tommy, eh. Haven't seen Tommy the night, though."

"Do you know where he stays?"

"Oh, aye, just up the road, North Street. We can take him home."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh, aye, nae bother. Come on, mate. Gavin, get up, let's get you home."

With a smile of relief, the women helped him up and handed him over to the two men. Guy stumbled along between them without protest. He had a fuzzy notion that one of them was called Ross. It was true, he had seem them before a few times when he'd been out with the football gang. Probably-Ross had beaten him at pool.

They stopped at a door. "This your place?"

Guy nodded.

"Do you have your key, mate?"

He checked his pockets and found it. Probably-Ross helped him get it in the lock and the door opened into the stairwell.

"All right, mate, good night!"

"I'm a time-travel, time knight. She's a witch and I love her."

"Just go to bed, eh?"

Guy grabbed the banister and heaved himself up the stairs.

oOoOo

Kate Howard placed her lunch tray beside Anna's and drizzled ketchup over her chips.

"Want to hear my good news? I've got a new job. Starting two weeks' time."

"Oh, congrats! I didn't know you were looking to leave."

"You bet! It's high time I get out of this madhouse."

Anna, who didn't have another job lined up, asked in a low voice, "You feel Alastair is getting a bit unstable?"

"Ah, so it's not just me! He's going bat crap crazy, if you ask me. Wanting to pull more and more characters, heaven knows what for. Sooner or later we'll do a pull that really screws up the world of origin, and then there'll be hell to pay."

"You think it's getting dangerous?"

"Have you seen the list for March?"

Anna shook her head. "Not yet."

"Go and ask Michael about it." Kate skewered her chips with engineering precision. "Have a look at it and tell me it's not crazy. Why pull all these characters? What's the point? Most of them would have done just fine without us. I think the only one that was ever worth pulling was your Norman friend. And perhaps Rochester, though I would imagine he'd have a difficult time hiding his prosthetic hand from his fellow men if he ever does go back. Nobody else has had any benefit from our interference."

"Perhaps not," murmured Anna.

"I've been uneasy about Chrysalis for a good while now," continued Kate. "It's an arrogant thing we're doing and a pointless ivory tower game. I went into engineering because I wanted to solve problems. Like, real problems that affect real people."

"So where are you going?"

" _Gaia Energy_. They're a geothermal energy firm and they've agreed to retrain me. I've been really lucky."

"Well, good for you!"

"Listen, Anna, if I were you, I'd start looking for something else. You're wasting your talents here, and if the whole thing blows up…" She stuffed a forkful of beans into her mouth and gave Anna a significant look while she chewed.

"Do you mean literally?" Anna had finished her lunch and pushed the tray aside. "Is the Chrysalis machine going to explode?"

Kate shook her head. "I wouldn't say that's impossible, but it's unlikely. No, I think if Alastair gets it into his head to pull a character from the source material's onscreen timeline, there will be some kind of reality warp. Something really noticeable. And I wouldn't like to be here when Michael has to explain to the public what we've been up to for the last few years."

Grimly, Anna stared at her discarded cutlery. "I know what you mean. I always say to myself that we're operating in a legal grey area, but when you look at it critically –"

"– then what we're doing is plain kidnapping. And possibly there are copyrights issues involved as well. The legal team have never been able to resolve it, as far as I know."

Anna knew that this was only too true. And without security regarding their legal status, she would never be able to publish her paper, because the whole project would have to remain secret. This wasn't the first time she was wondering how she had come to be entangled in such a dodgy business. Well, Michael had persuaded her, of course, overflowing as he was with enthusiasm for the good they could do. Only, in the end they hadn't done much good. And after their little liaison, ahem, she wasn't so sure that she wanted to continue to work with Michael anyway. Perhaps Kate was right and she should just go. But first she needed to see this list Kate had talked about.

When she saw it, she could hardly believe it. Even by the lax recent standards, it was outrageous.

"This is stupid, Michael! Why didn't you talk him out of it?"

"You know what he's like. He's determined to have them."

"Why? What does he even want with Santiago? Take him fishing? _The Old Man and the Pond at the Fotheringham Estate?_ Why would we pull Laura Ingalls? She's happy in her world! And Emma Bovary? She dies! We can't pull people who die, we'd have to pull them from before the end of the story!"

"Good god, Anna, I know that! There might be a way round it. The engineers are working on it as we speak."

Anna, only half pacified, scanner further down the list.

"And what's this? Draco Malfoy? _Draco Malfoy?_ How? We said nothing supernatural. Are we breaking all the rules now? How can you allow this?"

"I think we need to give Alastair a bit of leeway. He funds us after all."

"The rules are there for a reason, no matter where the money comes from."

"The rules will be pointless if we have to close due to lack of money."

"Has it occurred to you that Alastair has just used our wonderful humanitarian approach as a smoke screen and that his real interest is to use Chrysalis for pulling characters willy-nilly to satisfy his own whims?"

"Of course it has! Do you think I'm stupid? But what am I supposed to do about it?"

"Tell him not to do it! Otherwise we could end up with cartoon characters walking the street, or the Eye of Sauron rising over the hills. Tell Alastair that his list is insane."

"Anna, my job is on the line here. So's yours. Let's keep our heads down."

Anna let the list sink. "My god, Michael. I had expected better from you."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

It was late and Michael was thinking of calling it a day. Everyone else had gone home at least two hours ago and the night porters had started their shift. He pressed the send button on his last e-mail and switched off the computer. In the eerie silence of the empty office, he took of his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

Anna had been right, it had all gone pear-shaped, in so many ways, not only between them. The Rochesters, for example, had simply disappeared one night, following Alastair's decision not to fund Jane's studies. No news of them had emerged and he kept worrying what had become of them. Alastair's extractions had lost all reason. Two weeks ago there had been a brief panic spreading across the internet when thousands of people around the world had found their copies of _Gone With the Wind_ wiped blank. Michael had quickly established that this was due to Alastair's wish to have dinner with Scarlett O'Hara. Fortunately, books and films had restored themselves as if by magic after he had sent the lady back. The internet then decided that it had all been a case of mass hysteria or else an elaborate hoax, and the people who had witnessed the phenomenon first hand were quickly shouted down as attention-seeking jerks.

The incident had been a stern warning of what might happen if they weren't' careful. Apart from the danger of discovery by an outside world that might be less than pleased to find out about Chrysalis's endeavours, there was the potential threat of pulling a character that would be beyond their control. Draco Malfoy had proved precarious in that respect, because even without his wand he had powers and abilities that gave them trouble. In the end, even Alastair had agreed to send Draco back. But there was no telling whom he might fix on next. Michael had taken to carrying a stun gun, just in case.

Not only did he feel threatened at Chrysalis Beta these days, he also felt lonely. Kate had left, Richard had left, and Justin and Fran and, of course, Anna. Few of the original staff remained. Some days he and Leanne felt like survivors from a different century. Perhaps he should follow the others and leave Alastair to his own devices.

He looked up. At first he thought the voice came from the floor above where the collection of Austenite spinsters and frustrated wives resided, but then he realised that it came from the Chrysalis room. As he jogged down the corridor, he could make out words.

"No, Michael, no! Leave me alone! MICHAEL! Help, help! HELP!"

With shaking fingers, Michael punched the security code into the keypad. The door opened. He held his stun gun at the ready.

Alastair lay on the floor in a spreading puddle of blood. Michael tried to assess whether the man was alive or dead but rising nausea suddenly demanded all his attention. And then he saw the zombie lurching out from behind the machine and he understood why Alastair had shouted _Michael._ He pulled the trigger.

oOoOo

"Well, it shows its age a bit, but it's still pretty good, don't you think?" said Charlotte as the closing credits rolled. "Watch the next episode?"

"Okay." Anna would have preferred not to, but it was Charlotte's house, and Charlotte was so pleased with her charity shop find, and Anna didn't really want to explain why she'd rather not watch it. So she leaned back on the sofa, kept her wine glass close and endured Guy's rages and humiliations. She kept telling herself that she had freed him from all this, but it was still hard to have it shoved into her face again.

"He's a nasty piece of work, but I kind of get the hots for him," said Charlotte as Guy accused Jennet of Elsdon of witchcraft. "Does that make me some kind of weirdo, in your professional opinion?"

Anna shrugged. There was no malice involved on Charlotte's part, since she was entirely ignorant of Chrysalis and all its complications. She only knew that Anna worked in counselling and wasn't supposed to talk about her cases. Anna hadn't even told her that she had a new job; she was contented to let her friend believe that this was the job she'd always had. She had no intention to discuss Guy with her.

Seeing him on screen had a strange surreal feel to it. It was something she had studiously avoided all these months. His anguish affected her as if it were happening now. Wherever he might be, she hoped he was happy. Tomorrow, she resolved, she would make another attempt at tracking him down.

Her phone vibrated to alert her to a text message. She checked it, casually holding it in her left hand. Then she dropped her wine glass. It shattered on the wooden floor.

"Oh, my god!"

"What?" Charlotte looked round. "Oh, don't worry, it's an old glass."

"It's not that." Anna stared at the phone in horror. "Something terrible has happened."

oOoOo

They were at Tommy's place for a change. Rupert dozed on a cushion by the window. The telly showed some football match but Guy had no real interest in watching other people at the game. He scanned the room, taking the opportunity to learn a little more about how a 21st century bachelor was expected to live. For example, Tommy had no curtains on his windows, only blinds. Guy wondered whether anyone considered him effeminate on account of the sunflower curtains Fran had picked for him. Also whether, if someone were indeed to tell him that they were not manly, he would be willing to change them.

"What's this?" He picked up a large, thin book. Asking Tommy things was relatively safe, because Tommy had accepted without question Guy's story that he had grown up on a missionary station in sub-Saharan Africa and still felt disorientated in modern Britain.

"What? Oh, that's a phone directory. It's a bit last century, but lots of people still have their number and address listed in it."

"It tells you where people live?"

"If they have their address put in. Most people just put the phone number."

"You mean this has been here all the time and you didn't tell me?"

"How was I to know you wanted a phone book?"

Guy began to flick through the pages. "How do you find people?"

"They're listed alphabetically."

"Hm." He turned to the A section and scanned the columns. After a while he tried S.

"What does this mean?"

Tommy looked over his shoulder to where Guy was pointing. " _Sinclair, Dr A, 36b Lbrn Dr._ You know where Laburnum Drive is, up by the fire station? Number 18 bus takes you there. But if you need a doctor, there's the health centre just round the corner."

"I don't need a doctor," said Guy. "I need a bus timetable. And some advice about women."

oOoOo

When Anna opened the door, the first thing she saw was an enormous bunch of pink carnations. Then a big black dog nearly knocked her over, barking excitedly.

"My god, it's Rupert! He's grown so big!" She checked quickly and yes, it was Guy's face nearly hidden behind all those flowers.

"These are for you," he said and held out the bouquet. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry, why?"

"Because it's just flowers."

"But I love flowers."

"Well, yes, but…" He smiled awkwardly. "I asked a friend for advice what to get you and he said, all women like flowers so it's a safe option, but it's also unimaginative. He said I should find something more individual, to show that I appreciate you as a unique person. And then I couldn't think of anything. Because all the time we spent together, it was all about me and I failed to get to know you for real. And I'm sorry I was so self-centred and – why are you crying?"

Anna had clamped her hand over her mouth and was blinking away tears.

"You don't even realise what you just did, do you?"

"No." He looked at her, alarmed. "What have I done?"

She lowered her hand and smiled. "You'd better come in."

He followed her into the sitting room, where she placed him on the sofa, glad that she'd tidied up a bit before she left for work that morning. There were no biscuits in the house, but she found a packet of dry roasted peanuts which she poured out into a bowl. It seemed too early in the day for wine, so she made coffee. Two sugars for Guy. She remembered that.

"Tell me how you've been," she said as she settled down beside him. "I hear you're not at the market garden anymore. Didn't you like it?"

"I liked it well enough, but something else came along. I repair bicycles now. At the cycle shop opposite the train station. Apparently I have a talent for it. My boss says I'm a natural mechanic. It was pleasant to find out that I'm good at something."

"I bet it was. And you've made a friend, too."

He grinned. "Three friends!"

"I am awed! Do you want to tell me?"

"I've followed all your advice. I've taken up a sport, football, and that's how I got to know Tommy. And I made two other friends, Sean and Catriona. I met them at the dog shelter; I help out there most weekends. There's another thing, too, but that's a secret for now."

"Oooh?"

"A surprise. For some other time."

"I'm intrigued." Maybe he had entered a baking competition. "So…"

The pause in the conversation could have been awkward, but fortunately Rupert was there, wagging his tail at Anna and licking her hands, knees and feet. Eventually, Guy got him to settle down on the rug.

"I found your address only yesterday. I've been to Chrysalis Beta to see you," he said. "About three months ago. They told me you weren't there."

"I left. I work for an ordinary counselling service now. And I've pretty much given up academia and any hope of ever publishing my paper."

"What made you leave?"

"I fell out with Michael."

He nodded as if that was somehow inevitable. "What about the others? Justin, Fran …?"

"I don't see them these days. Talk to them on Facebook sometimes. They were as shocked as I –" She stopped herself, but too late.

"Shocked at what?"

Anna sighed. She might as well tell him. "You know, it's not true what I just said. About falling out with Michael. I mean, I did, after a fashion, but the real problem was Alastair."

"The man who gets to play God?"

"Yes. He'd gone off the rail. Pulling characters he shouldn't have pulled. You see, when Chrysalis was set up, there were very strict rules about who you could pull. Nobody who dies in the source material, because you can only pull them after their story is finished. Otherwise you'd mess up their story. Nobody who could be a danger to the public, and absolutely nobody non-human and nobody with supernatural powers. Those were technical reasons, so to speak. And then there was an ethical principle, namely that we would only pull people who would benefit from our intervention. That had been established by old Mr Fotheringham, and Michael and I always completely believed in it. Now Alastair had made some dodgy choices early on, but a few months ago he went kind of mad. He threw all rules to the wind and pulled whoever he fancied. It scared the shit out of me. I had a big row with Michael, because I wanted to do something to stop him, but Michael was just afraid to lose his job. So I wondered what I could do on my own. My first thought was to sabotage the machine somehow, but I didn't really have a clue how. I mean, I didn't even have security clearance for the Chrysalis room and I'm really not an action movie heroine. Anyway, he could have just had a new one built. So then I considered going to the police. They would have been interested in it for public safety's sake, and also because of the forged papers. But that was exactly why I didn't do it. I thought they would go and check for any people who'd come through Chrysalis, and then they would hunt you down. So in the end I just walked out. Kate Howard had already gone by that time. Justin and Fran left not much later."

"And Alastair is still pulling people?"

"No." Anna's face grew grim. "Alastair is dead. He was killed. He pulled one too many."

"What happened?"

"You know the _Thriller_ video?"

"The Michael Jackson one? With the zombies?"

"Yes. Not a nice way to die, I imagine."

Guy exhaled loudly and shook his head. "When was this?"

"About five weeks ago? Maybe six. After that, Michael was so spooked that he sent everybody back who was still based at Chrysalis. Only you and the Rochesters are still here, though heaven knows where they've gone. They ran away, you know. Stupidly, we never tagged them. And there is a police investigation under way, so we'd better pray that we won't be found out. At least Michael is not under any suspicion. Because there were clear bite marks and they don't match his teeth, or something like that. And he managed to delete most of the files before they came. But still…"

"How do you know all this?"

"Michael texted me right after it happened. We met up and he told me all about it."

"So you're still talking to each other anyway?"

"We didn't fall out that badly. Just … oh, it's complicated."

Another stretch of silence was masked by patting Rupert's head and sipping away at the coffee.

"I've missed you," Guy said at last.

"I've missed you too." Which was true enough, but Anna felt uncomfortable admitting it. She had so longed to see him, and yet now he was here, she only felt embarrassed and deflated. No doubt it was because of the terrible business at Chrysalis Beta. She put her mug down and feigned surprise at seeing the clock.

"Is it that late? Honey, I've not got much time; I'm meeting with my friend Charlotte tonight and I still need to get showered and all."

"Okay." He rose from the sofa, slowly and with a pensive expression on his face. "I'd better go then."

Anna nodded in relief.

"It was lovely to see you. Thanks for the flowers. I hope to see you again soon." And then she practically shoved him out the door.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

In fact, Anna had nothing planned for that evening and had at best hoped for hot chocolate and something tolerable on the telly. She curled up on the sofa, hugging a cushion, and tried to clear her head. It would have been so much better if he had phoned first. She'd have been able to prepare herself mentally. Think about what she actually wanted, beyond seeing him again. As with most things, it was more complicated than he probably thought, because there was more to consider than just her feelings.

The beginning of the encounter had been promising enough. That he would apologise for having been self-absorbed was in itself a small miracle. But the prosaic account of himself that followed had left her somewhat disappointed. Repairing bikes, playing football, so what? It was all very well, helping at the dog shelter, but it wasn't exactly heroic. On the other hand, what had she expected? That he would find a cure for cancer or single-handedly stop climate change? For him, with his history, wasn't it enough that he lived quietly and inoffensively, doing nobody any harm? And it wasn't as if she was at the forefront of every humanitarian quest. What right did she have to expect him to be a true hero?

Well, obviously, she didn't have a mountain of evil to atone for. Mind you, since she had started from a much better basis, one might expect more of her. Whereas for Guy it was a remarkable achievement that he could live without hitting people over the head. If he felt more comfortable caring for dogs than for humans, who could blame him?

She took the empty mugs through to the kitchen and stuck them in the dishwasher. Then she stood leaning against the worktop and stared at the wall tiles. "Oh, crap," she muttered. "What now?" At least she had told him that she wanted to see him again. A phone number would have been better, though. Now the waiting game was back on.

Two days, three days. She could go to the cycle shop. Or wait another day. What advice would his worldly-wise friend give – wait a week?

On the fourth day, she went from work straight into town hoping he'd still be at the shop.

"Can I help you?" asked a small, wiry man.

"Yes, is, um, Gavin working here?"

"Just left a few minutes ago. You might be able to catch him up, he always goes through the pedestrian zone. Good luck."

"Thanks!" She rushed out and hastened along the pavement. Before she even reached the pedestrian zone, she saw his blonde head outside the greengrocer's. She dashed across the street right in front of a car and ran up to him.

"Anna!"

"Hi. Nearly got myself run over. Why didn't you come to see me again?"

"Tommy said to wait a week."

"Sounds like a right muppet to me. Not the kind of person you should take advice from."

They looked at each other and grinned.

"There is a pretty park round the corner," said Guy. "Shall we go for a walk?"

"Um, that's where I used to – well, yes, okay."

There were no hydrangeas in bloom at this time of year. Instead broad white and yellow bands of daffodils lined the paths. The trees were just coming into foliage. They ambled along, talking stupidly about the weather, and then Guy suggested they sat down. At least Anna manged to find them a different bench.

"So," she said, "is that your new boss, small man, tattoo on his hand?"

"Kenny, yes. I like him."

"He seems a nice fellow. But if you don't mind me asking, why did you really leave the market garden? Did anything happen? Did you get in trouble? Did you fall out with your boss?"

"Not at all. I got on really well with Moira."

"Well, I can't help feeling a little suspicious. You left your job and then moved house at the same time. What's the deal with that? Tell me."

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Not really."

Guy's mouth stretched into a mischievous grin. "And I thought you were so much smarter than I. Shall I help you out?"

"Please."

"Do you remember a day when I asked you a very personal question and your answer was No?"

"Oh." She looked away. "Yes, I remember."

"Do you also remember the reason you gave?"

"Yes." She shuffled her feet. "So you're telling me that you moved to a different flat and a different job to prove to me that you could make it without any support from Chrysalis?"

"Yes."

"Hm. Honey, that's wasn't necessarily what I had in mind that day. It was more about, well, mental independence. However, I am impressed. And to be honest, I had hoped you would get in touch much sooner, but now I see why you didn't. Anyway, I assume you remember that I said back then it wasn't a final answer. And the way things stand, I think the question is entirely open to re-evaluation."

"You mean you might be inclined to say Yes?"

"Indeed."

"Oh, Anna!" He seized her, kissed her roughly on the mouth and slid his hand under her t-shirt, feeling for her breasts. Anna squirmed and tried to push him aside.

"Let go! Hands off!"

She wriggled free and positioned herself behind the bench, out of his reach. "What are you thinking? You can't just grab me like that!"

"But, Anna –"

"Don't but-Anna me! All back to your bad old ways, are you?"

The once-familiar perpendicular lines appeared between his brows. "How dare you!" he barked. "You led me on!"

"I did nothing of the kind. I indicated that I would be open to a romantic relationship. That doesn't mean you can just pounce on me. You need to learn to keep your hands to yourself until you've been told otherwise."

"Really? Then how has it always been all right for you to touch me without asking?"

"I never touched you in that way!"

"How could you know I was all right with your way? Do you know what embarrassment you caused me?"

"Don't try to shift the blame! You behaved like a … like an ape."

They stared at each other and for a while neither moved. Then Guy curled up one corner of his mouth and shrugged. "So," he said bitterly, "I'm still not good enough for you. I'll never be good enough for you, will I? Why did I even bother?"

As he strode away, Anna punched the bench in exasperation, then cursed and tried to pry the splinter out of her hand.

oOoOo

Going out drinking alone was a mistake, he should have known that by now. But what did it matter at this stage? And why stop at four pints when you can have five?

It was still early in the evening and the pub was not too busy, so when Guy returned from the toilet and saw two men standing by the bar, occupying exactly the spot he had temporarily vacated, he found the additional vexation just a little too much. It wasn't really reason enough to march up to them and shove them aside, laying claim to three feet of counter by way of spreading his elbows. But that was precisely what he did.

"Hey, what's up with you?" cried one of the men.

"I was here first," Guy barked.

"Where are we, at nursery school?" The second man tried to reclaim his space at the bar. "Find somewhere else."

"You go find somewhere else!" The interaction was beginning to merit the term kerfuffle.

"Gentlemen," said the girl behind the bar, somewhat in contradiction to the observable data.

"I was here first. It's my place by right!"

"I'm sure there's space for everyone," the girl pointed out in a doomed attempt to deescalate the situation.

"I will not be pushed aside by these peasants!"

"Oh, up yours!" cried the first man.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Guy grabbed him by the collar and pulled him towards him. "I've heard people say that before. Tell me what it means!"

"What planet are you from? It means you can stick it up your arse."

Guy felt the blood rising to his face. Images of the sheriff flooded to the surface.

"Look at him blushing. He probably likes it up his arse," sneered the other man. "I can give you up your arse!"

At which point Guy grabbed a bar stool and swung it at the man's face.

oOoOo

Rarely had Anna been so glad to hear the phone ring on a Saturday morning.

"Hello? … Oh, I'm so glad it's you. Listen, I'm sorry about – what? … Okay, I can pick you up, where are you? … At the _sheriff_ _court?_ Whatever happened?"

Within thirty-five minutes Anna was washed, dressed and rushing up the steps to the sheriff court. In the foyer, Guy stood sheepishly next to a young, grey-suited man.

"I'm Barry Clark," said the young man as he shook Anna's hand. "I don't get paid for hanging around here, but he seems so disorientated I wanted to make sure someone picked him up."

"What happened?"

"Bit of a situation in a pub. Mr Gibbs is charged with assault. Claims the other man propositioned him, but it turns out it was just common use of foul language that Mr Gibbs took too literally."

"Oh, for crying out loud!"

Grim-faced, Anna listened as the solicitor briefly summarised the details and then excused himself with a plea to Anna to ensure Mr Gibbs got home safely. As soon as he was out of sight, Anna turned on her heel and made for the door.

"Anna, wait for me." Guy tried to keep up with her as she marched across the car park. "Am I in a lot of trouble?"

"I really couldn't care less," she hissed. "I'm done with you."

"But it wasn't a big deal!"

"Not a big deal? There's a man in hospital with a broken jaw! You call that not a big deal?"

"He provoked me!"

"So what? Is that what I taught you, to respond to provocation with violence? You should have used your relaxation techniques. And may I mention as well that if you had done as I asked you _time and time again_ and told me about your bloody issues with the bloody sheriff, you would not have been so easily provoked."

"I didn't mean to hit him so hard."

"Oh, whatever."

"What's going to happen now?"

"Well, you're out on bail. There'll be a court case. You might go to prison."

"What, for a _tavern brawl_?"

"Yes," she said icily. They had reached her car and she unlocked it. "How times have changed. I suppose you preferred the Age when soldiers could burn down whole villages with impunity but a woman could be hanged for refusing to sleep with you."

"When what? What are you talking about? _That?_ That was witchcraft!"

She glared at him in silence. "So you have reverted to your irrational hogwash," she said at last. "I was wrong about you, I should have listened to Michael. You've learned nothing, after all that I've told you. Nothing. You really are beyond help, you pathetic piece of crap." She slid into her car.

"Where are you going? Anna! Don't leave me! What will I do?"

"You'll have a lawyer. You're not my problem. Not anymore. You can go to hell for all I care."

She slammed the car door and started the engine.

"Anna! Anna, don't!" He thumped at the window and then, as the car pulled away, at the boot. Then she was gone.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

She almost overlooked the small manila envelope among the wad of junk mail. It was addressed simply "For Anna," in large, somewhat childish-looking letters. Inside was nothing but a single piece of pale green card – a concert ticket. _VERDI, REQUIEM – 12_ _TH_ _MAY – 7.30 PM – ST MARY'S EPISCOPAL CHURCH._ She turned it over. The same awkward hand had written on the back, "Please come. G."

Her first reaction was annoyance. Today _was_ the 12th of May. Guy had some nerve to assume that she would be available on a Friday night at the drop of a hat. He had some nerve to assume that she would be available for him at all, after how he'd behaved. With a snort she flung the ticket on the sideboard.

When she looked at it again an hour later, with a good dinner comfortably settling in her stomach, she gave some consideration to the double lines under the word "Please." She could picture the look on his face as he wrote it, both pleading and defiant. The hurt child was haggling with fate, entreating life for an indulgence. So, he had been on her doorstep today, probably wearing that same look. No doubt he would consider it cruel of her if she didn't come. No doubt he'd curse her. No doubt he felt himself entitled to –

Anna took a deep breath. This wouldn't be the first time in her life that, full of indignation and self-righteousness, she made a vital mistake. What if she was the hurt child in this scenario? Was she being immature, sulking because he had failed to be a credit to her work with a spotless record of rehabilitation? Wasn't she expecting him to deal with his issues more perfectly that she ever dealt with hers? For losing his temper in one moment of rage, she had accused him of having learned nothing. She had dismissed their entire journey together and all his efforts since, because he had taken that one false step. Yet here she held it in her hand, proof that he was a changed man, a man who asked gently, meekly. There was no trace on this humble cardboard scrap of the man who had abducted Sarah de Talmont. Sir Guy of Gisburne, who had insisted on his full title at their first meeting, was contented with a mere initial.

And gently, humbly, he was trusting her not to break his heart.

But she didn't have time to cry now. It was twenty to seven. She texted Charlotte and excused herself from girls' night. If she showered quickly, if she took a taxi rather than trying to find somewhere to park, she could still make it. She ordered the taxi for ten past seven before she went to the bathroom. Her black dress looked nice enough without making her seem overly keen and would be appropriate for Verdi – Why Verdi, by the way? Not exactly romantic, was it? Another of Tommy's suggestions, or Guy's own taste? Who knew. Black dress would be fine in any case. In a similar spirit she applied minimal make-up and the tiniest drop of perfume.

At twenty-five past seven Anna arrived at St Mary's. It was a mild and dry evening, so she was surprised not to find Guy waiting outside the door. Though it would make sense, she thought, for him to be inside and keep seats for them both. She entered the church and showed her ticket. A buzz of instruments being tuned mingled with the voices of the audience. The pews were mostly full, but it should be easy to find that blonde head sticking up from the crowd. She scanned row after row. She scanned again. He wasn't there.

Foolishly, she checked her ticket. Of course she was at the right place at the right time, they had let her in after all. She looked around again, but there was definitely no sign of him. An usher moved towards her and pointed her in the direction of the front pews. She wondered briefly why seats should be free at the front, then she remembered – the acoustic – and sat down. The double bass was right in front of her and bound to drone in her ear all evening. She tried to tell herself that Guy was probably delayed by some unforeseen circumstances and had _not_ stood her up, but a hollow feeling nevertheless crept over of her.

The orchestra had finished their tuning and a hush spread through the building. Then the choir filed in and Anna realised that it was too late to sneak out and pretend nothing had happened. Morosely, she stared at the flagstones under her feet. So she'd given up a night out with her friends for this, sitting all by herself on the front bench with a prime view of an enormous, ginger-bearded double bass player. If Guy had wanted to revenge himself on her, this had been a good move for sure.

Polite applause greeted the appearance of the conductor and then the usual expectant silence fell. The conductor raised his hands, the mournful strings commenced, accompanied by the inevitable cough from someone at the back. Softened by the mellow voices evoking eternal light, Anna relaxed and decided she would at least enjoy the music. When the male voices rose to _Te decet hymnus_ , she looked up. And then she saw him.

He stood in the last row among the basses and wore, like all of them, a black suit and bowtie. He held his music score like an offering and his eyes were fixed on the conductor in rapt abandon. Anna dug her nails into her thighs. She fancied she could make out his voice, though that, obviously, was silly.

 _And I nearly didn't come._

She watched him, dumbfounded. Words poured from his mouth and echoed from the vaulted ceiling. When the fury of the _Dies Irae_ assaulted the stone walls and Guy's glasses sparkled in his trembling face, Anna knew something extraordinary was happening, but it wasn't until she saw him pleading _Salva me_ that she fully understood. A requiem. Of course. Matthew the miller. Ralph of Huntingdon. The Jews of Nottingham. How many others? Could he even count? _Lux perpetua luceat eis._

She listened, shaking, barely containing the tears. The music coursed through her limbs and pooled in her chest. Not once did Guy look in her direction, or anywhere other than at the conductor. He was singing for his redemption and nothing was going to distract him for a split second. When the choir sat during the solos, he closed his eyes as if in prayer. _Lacrimosa dies illa qua resurget ex favilla judicandus homo reus._ She had cast judgement on him. She. Anna realised that quite possibly Guy was the only person in the building who literally believed every word he sang. And she had told him to go to hell. She hankered for the interval, but the choir disappeared into the vestry and wasn't seen again until the beginning of the second half. Guy's devotion never flagged for the rest of the concert. _Libera me, domine, de morte aeterna._ Anna burrowed in her handbag for a tissue. Her mascara would be smudged. So be it.

As the final notes melted away and applause washed over her, she caught his eye at last. His expression was unfathomable, but concern spread over his face when he saw her wipe the tears away. She tried her best to smile. He gave her a single slow nod. Then the choir filed out.

With business-like efficiency, the orchestra began to pack up their instruments. Scores rustled, collapsible music stands clattered. The audience started conversing and milling about. Mundane talk, how was your week, have you seen Catherine, shall we go for a drink? Anna clutched her crumpled tissue, wondering when and where he would come out. Should she try to find him? No, probably best to stay where she was.

Slowly, the church emptied. Choir members emerged from the vestry, were greeted by friends and ambled away. The ginger-bearded double bass heaved his instrument into its massive case, grunting. Anna began to fret. Was there another exit from the vestry? Was it possible that he'd leave without speaking to her?

"Anna."

She leapt to her feet, ready to hug him. When she saw his face, though, she didn't dare touch him. His eyes were cold, his mouth grim.

"Thank you for coming." His voice sounded strained.

"Thank you for inviting me."

"I wanted you to know this. I was hoping you would think better of me if you saw that I could be part of something worthy." He wasn't looking at her, but staring over her head.

"Guy." She wanted to wrap her arms round him, but he seemed too distant and there was too much that needed to be said first. "I'm really sorry. About what I said to you, outside the sheriff court. And that I left you when you needed my help. I was … I was so disappointed. But I should have been more understanding and supportive. I've been a jerk. So, I'm sorry."

At least he looked at her now, though his expression and posture remained forbidding.

"I accept your apology," he said stiffly. "It was interesting to see you handle anger badly. It made me think you should have used your relaxation techniques."

"Well, that's great." Anna gave a nervous laugh, eager to change the subject. "So, was this the surprise you talked about? You've certainly managed to amaze me. When did you even learn to read music?"

"I didn't. I listen and remember."

"The whole piece?"

"Yes."

"My god. You're a musical genius?"

"I've always had a good ear. Though I still don't understand why the conductor keeps telling us to put bananas into our score. Listen, Anna, I know I should probably ask you to come for a drink or something, but the truth is, I really just want to get home and go to bed. This has taken a lot out of me."

"I know. I saw it." She reached for his hand and squeezed it briefly. "I think I understand what you did tonight. You did well. I hope it has put to rest some of the demons."

"I hope so, too." He put his hand on her arm, pressed it gently, then turned away. "Good night," he said over his shoulder and walked down the aisle to the exit.

After he had gone, the church was deserted. Anna sank down on a pew and wept till the sexton ushered her out with polite concern.

oOoOo

At nine o'clock on Saturday morning the bell rang relentlessly. Anna rolled out of bed groaning and staggered to the door. On the way, she almost tripped over the empty wine bottle.

"Why can't they deliver their stupid parcels in the afternoon?" she wailed as she turned the key. "I haven't even ordered anything."

"Good morning!" chirped Guy. Beside him, Rupert wagged his tail.

Before she knew it, she'd slammed the door shut. When she realised what she'd done, she opened it again for a tiny crack.

"Oh my god, don't go away. Just give me a minute to put on some clothes." Then she thought, _Sitcom cliché,_ and then, _Does it matter?_ and then she opened the door properly. The shy smile she'd glimpsed on Guy's face had turned into a puzzled frown.

"Excuse my crumpled jammies. You woke me up and I'm a bit hungover. Come in."

She parked him on the sofa while she threw on a dressing gown and hastily brushed her hair and teeth.

"Coffee?" she called from the kitchen.

"Yes, please."

They sat each at one end of the sofa, Anna cross-legged, nursing her mug, Guy leaning sideways against the backrest with his chin propped up on his hand. Rupert had settled on the rug next to the coffee table. The silence stretched and cringed and begged to be broken.

"Anna, I don't know what to do. I have consulted television, but it's useless."

"Um…sorry, I don't follow. Why would you consult the telly, about what?"

"Justin once told me the television could teach me almost everything I needed to know. But it doesn't. On television, if a woman has said no to a man before, the solution is that they get into a life-threatening situation and he rescues her, or sometimes she rescues him, and then she's so glad they're both alive that she just falls into his arms. Even Loxley got Marion that way."

Anna giggled. "So he did! But I take it you haven't come here to discuss TV tropes with me?"

"No." He regarded his mug, sitting on his knee, with intense scrutiny. She blew on her coffee and wondered how well he could gauge her feelings. Probably didn't have a clue.

"There is very little guidance," he continued, still studying the mug, "about what to do if you just go to a woman's house to find out if she's changed her mind."

"I guess not. But I can make it easy for you so you won't have to ask. I cried last night during the concert, because it was beautiful and you were beautiful and I could see what you were doing. And I cried afterwards because you walked away and left me standing there."

"I was exhausted. I wanted to talk to you, but I felt ready to collapse."

"I know, I know. But still. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is, I consider you redeemed. As far as I'm concerned, the knight has returned victorious, and my heart is yours – _if_ you want it."

"Of course I do!" Coffee spilled.

"Wait! Wait. This is where we come to the hairy issue. Remember how I once said you might prefer someone else? I wasn't kidding. There are some things about me that you need to know so you can see clearly what you're letting yourself in for."

"You are conceited and bossy and easily get carried away by your feelings, I know. I think I can cope with that."

"But there are more serious issues than that."

He put the mug aside and sat up. "What could they be?"

"Well, for a start, I'm older than you. Four years, so nothing drastic, but even in this day and age the idea prevails that the woman should be younger than the man. I thought you should be aware of that, in case that's your view as well."

"I don't care. And strictly speaking you're 800 years younger."

"Ha, yes. But there's more, and it's more relevant. I have two broken marriages to my name, both due to poor judgement on my side. The second one was really quite a disaster. And right after you left Chrysalis, I had a fling with Michael, but it didn't work out and he wasn't exactly delighted when we broke up. There have been other men as well, but these are the main ones."

"I wasn't expecting you to be a virgin."

She chuckled. "Yes, haven't you adapted well to modern morals? But that's not the point, honey. Don't you see? I have a track record of failed relationships. I'm not good at it. After my recent shenanigans you can probably imagine why. And it was reckless, possibly even cruel of me to take up with Michael at a time when I really wanted you."

He shook his head, puzzled. "You said back then that you didn't love me as a woman loves a man."

"I lied! Don't you understand, I wasn't supposed to have feelings for you; I was your counsellor! And that's just the thing. As a counsellor, I'd caution my clients against someone like me. Guy, if we get together, chances are that you will get hurt because I'll screw up."

He sighed and looked at the ceiling. Then he reached for her hand.

"Anna. There's something you're forgetting. I have a lot of experience with being hurt and I know the kind of people who set out to hurt others. That's not what you are. I don't believe that you could ever hurt me in the way other people have, even when you lose your temper. I'm willing to take my chances with you. If it doesn't work out, then at least we tried."

Gently, she squeezed his fingers. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. It might be the only thing I am sure about, but yes. Is that all?"

"No, one more thing. I can't have children. My fallopian tubes are kind of useless. I've had treatment in the past but nothing's helped."

"And this makes you sad?"

"Of course. And it would mean that you would lose out, too."

Slowly, he shook his head. "I have thought about children. All men are supposed to want a son, an heir, aren't they? But I don't want to have children. I wouldn't trust myself to bring them up right. What kind of father could I be, with all my, as you call them, issues? No, it's better this way. I've been wondering how to tell you. You know, in case you said yes."

Both fixed their eyes on their intertwined fingers. The silence lasted for three breaths, then four. Anna stroked the back of Guy's hand with her thumb.

"So…"

"So."

She leaned closer. "Well?"

"Tommy told me what I did wrong at the park. He said I have to ask a woman before I kiss her, otherwise it's sexual assault."

"Not after a conversation like this. And that wasn't really the issue at the park either. I thought it was, but with hindsight it was me; it was the way I typically screw up. I could have just gently reprimanded you, but I blew a fuse. Anyway, I give you explicit permission to kiss me."

Nevertheless, Guy remained motionless. She tried to catch his eye and failed.

"What is it, Guy? Is it possible that you don't realise I said Yes?"

"I'm nervous."

"You didn't seem nervous at the park."

"Yes, and that was a great success, wasn't it?"

"Surely you've done this before?"

"Lustfully, yes. Never lovingly."

"You'll be glad to hear then that the mechanics are the same. Though you may want to adjust your style. Alternatively, just follow my lead."

She took off his gasses, framed his face in her hands and kissed him, and all the broken pieces fell into place at last.

oOoOo

The police investigation into Alastair's death hit a brick wall. There was no match for the DNA samples they had taken and all they could ascertain was that Michael Watford had not touched the murdered man. The facility seemed clearly dodgy, but they couldn't establish in what way, and there were virtually no witnesses as most staff had quietly gone home after the incident and never come back. A few cleaners and security staff were interviewed but they knew nothing very much. Michael told the police that Chrysalis had been in the process of being closed down, that most staff had been dismissed months ago and that with all their data wiped in an unexpected computer disaster, there wasn't a lot he could tell them. He showed them a few innocent minor inventions that had nothing to do with the extraction project and told them they had proved unprofitable. Leanne backed him up. In the end, the oddities of the place had been ascribed to Fotheringham's eccentricity. The media never got wind of the incident.

Guy's case came to court in June. It helped that his employer gave him a glowing reference. It helped that Michael submitted a report in which the terms _parental neglect, sexual exploitation_ and _posttraumatic stress disorder_ were strategically placed. It helped even more that his defence counsel was able to point out a respectable professional woman in the audience as "Mr Gibbs's fiancée." What helped most of all was probably that Guy had made a heartfelt apology to his victim. Which such mitigating factors, and the judge being in a good mood, Guy had got off lightly.

"A hundred and twenty hours unpaid work," said Anna as they descended the steps of the sheriff court. "Now you'll find out what it's like to be a serf."

"You're lucky I'm a reformed character," replied Guy with a grin, "else I might have slapped you for a comment like that."

"And landed yourself behind bars, yes." Anna hugged him tight. "But seriously, I think you'll benefit from getting counselling by someone other than me. You and I have been too much emotionally involved with each other for counselling to be really effective."

"Oh, I think it's worked well enough. Otherwise we wouldn't be here."

"I suppose."

"I'm still amazed that Michael would want to help me. He'd have reason to hate me."

Anna shrugged. "He doesn't have it in him to hate people. He's far too nice. While he may look like Loxley, he could never harm a fly. Besides, he deserves better than me and I hope he'll find someone worthy of him. Whereas you are justly punished with having to put up with me. You and I, we'll have an uphill struggle."

"Don't worry, Anna, we'll be fine. I know some relaxation techniques I could teach you."

"Don't push your luck, sunshine."

"How did Michael know, by the way? About the sheriff and what he made me do?"

"I think he just guessed. It wasn't hard to guess. You could have just told me."

He shook his head. "I didn't want you to know. I didn't want you think I wasn't a proper man."

"Oh, honey!" Anna took his hand. "With all the things I knew about you, you thought _that_ would bother me?"

"I can be a bit thick at times."

"You don't say!"

They ambled through the town and uphill towards the castle. From a bench by the gift shop they could see the whole valley stretch out before them. Warehouses and small factories marked the edge of the town. Solar panels flashed on the rooftops. Beyond that, the checkerboard of green and yellow fields was criss-crossed by hedgerows. The foliage on the trees still had the golden glow of spring. Distant hills lay crisp under the pale blue sky. A lark sang, claiming the whole heavens for her tune.

Guy watched the cars on the bypass heading up north. He thought of Michael's report that had been so helpful in securing his freedom. Parental neglect. Sexual exploitation. The 21st century had such glib terms for the sins committed against him by the central people in his life. He summoned them before his mind's eye: Sir Edmond of Gisburne, returned from battle to find his wife pregnant with another man's child, too proud to expose her but not generous enough to love the child as his own. His mother, doting and exuberant but ultimately too absorbed with her own feelings to pay much attention to his. And finally, de Rainault, sneering, callous, money-grabbing de Rainault. He pictured the man's face, distorted in rage or disgust, grinning with sordid pleasure or with delight in the pain and misfortune of others. That face had been, Guy knew now, a mirror, and all the loathing he had felt for it had matched an equal abhorrence of his own blackened soul.

He lifted his eyes to the sky and found the tiny fleck that was the bird. How light, how unburdened would any creature have to be to soar like this. He would never reach such heights, but at least he had escaped the part of hell that was of his own making. There would be scars, always, but there didn't have to be any more pain about the past.

He pulled Anna close and buried his face in her honey-coloured hair.

"I have forgiven them," he said.

The End


End file.
